The Last Ringbearer (2011)

by Kirill Yeskov

The voyage to Orodruin was not too hard. Runcorn accompanied them to the Hotont pass – the ranger wanted to scout a good place for a house in the upper reaches of the Otter Creek anyway – where Matun met them. Matun viewed the rendezvous with ‘Haladdin’s scouting team’ as a short vacation from the front lines – war still raged home in Mordor, whereas here, beyond the Mountains of Shadow, everything was nice and quiet. By that time Faramir had made every possible effort to make peace with the Shadow Mountain Trolls, fully succeeding in his diplomatic efforts last week when a delegation of three Trollish elders visited Emyn Arnen. Someone – let’s not point fingers – did not like this rapport one bit, so a special assassination team waited for the elders at the outskirts of the Settlement.

  However, Baron Grager’s intelligence service acquitted itself admirably: not only did it avert the attempt, it proved that the provocation was directed from beyond the Anduin. The assassins that survived the battle were let go with an order to ask His Majesty to vary his methods a bit. In any event, Grager’s proofs were enough for the elders: they broke a traditional flatbread with the Prince of Ithilien and departed, leaving their younger sons to serve in the prince’s personal guard as a sign of their covenant. By that time the Ithilienians have already established lively barter trade with the Trolls without waiting for any royal permissions. The Elves controlling the Cirith Ungol pass watched all that with hot fury but could do nothing about it – not enough manpower.

  “How’s Ivar doing, Matun? How’s maestro Haddami – still amusing you all with his jokes?”

  “Haddami got killed,” the Troll answered solemnly. “Gods rest his soul, he was a worthy man, even though Umbarian…” He looked at Haladdin’s face and mumbled in embarrassment: “My apologies, sir! I wasn’t thinking. What about that Gondorian of yours?”

  “He got killed, too.”

  “I see.”

  They only spent a few hours in Ivar’s camp. The lieutenant tried several times to detail guards to accompany them to Orodruin (“It’s real dicey on the plains right now, Easterling patrols are all over the place”), but the sergeant only chuckled: “You hear that, Matun?

  They’re gonna lead me through the desert!” He was right: helping an Orocuen in the desert is like teaching a fish to swim, and a smaller company is much better in their situation. So the two of them made the journey together, ending the way they started.

  Yes, it was time. Haladdin untied the sack, pushed apart its stiff silver-embroidered sides and took the heavy crystal ball in his hands, looking for the orange sparks in its pale opalescent depths.

  ***

  Here in Amon Súl the distant palantír at Orodruin was reflected as a large soap bubble some six feet in diameter. They could plainly see the unknown man turn the crystal around in his hands – huge images of hands moved around the surface of the ball, large and clear enough to read the palm lines.

  “What’s happening, Gandalf? Explain!” The wizard in the blue cloak could remain silent no longer.

  “Nothing. That’s the problem: nothing is happening.” Gandalf’s words had an even and lifeless quality. “My spell hasn’t worked. I don’t understand why.”

  “Then it’s all over?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Silence reigned; everyone seemed to be listening to the sound of the last grains of sand streaming down the hourglass of their lives.

  “Did you have a good time playing?” The voice that broke the silence was mocking, but still as beguiling as ever. “’History will vindicate me,’ eh?”

  “Saruman?!”

  The former head of the White Council was already heading into the hall with his firm wide stride, waiting for no permission or invitation, and everyone immediately felt that the term ‘former’ was absolutely inappropriate.

  He looked intently at the rays of light emanating from the palantír. “Vakalabath’s prophecy, isn’t it, Radagast?” He addressed the forest wizard to the exclusion of all the other Council members. “Aha… this ray leads to Orodruin?”

  “They want to destroy the Mirror,” a slightly revived Gandalf put in.

  “Shut up,” Saruman told him without looking at him, and thrust his suddenly stone chin at the Lórien ray, which had just dimmed again: “There’s your Mirror – enjoy the sight, wannabe demiurge…”

  “Can we help you, Saruman?” Radagast said soothingly, trying to mend bridges. “All our magic…”

  “Yes, you can, by getting out of here immediately. Stick all your magic up your butts: haven’t you understood yet that the man on Orodruin is absolutely immune to magic? I will try reasoning with him logically, perhaps that will work… Move!” he yelled at the Council members milling uncertainly at the doors. “Get the hell out, I said! This place is going to blow so high, you’ll be collecting your balls for weeks!”

  Paying no further attention to the quickly departing White wizards, he handled the palantír to put it into ‘send-receive’ mode and called softly: “Haladdin! Doctor Haladdin, can you hear me? Please respond.”

  CHAPTER 68

  A few excruciatingly long seconds passed before a surprised voice sounded from the depths of the palantír: “I hear you! Who’s calling me?”

  “I could have introduced myself as a nazgúl and you would have never known the lie, but I will not. I am Saruman, head of the White Council.”

  “The former head…”

  “No, present.” Saruman glanced over his shoulder at the white cloak abandoned by Gandalf in his haste lest the thing catch on something as he careened down the stairs. “For about three minutes already.”

  For a few seconds the palantír was silent.

  “How do you know my name, Saruman?”

  “There aren’t that many people in Middle Earth who are absolutely closed to magic. It stands to reason that the Nazgúl would pick one such to implement Vakalabath’s prophecy…”

  “Pardon me?”

  “There’s an obscure ancient prophecy saying that one not-so-wonderful day ‘magic will depart Middle Earth with the palantíri.’ The date of this event is encoded in a complicated manner; we have been combining the numbers in that prophecy and expecting this event at several dates, but so far it has not happened. Today is one of those days, and as I understand it, the Nazgúl have decided to use Vakalabath to destroy the palantíri and the Mirror – ‘the World is Text…’ You will now drop your palantír into Orodruin, the palantír in Lórien will burn the Mirror with Eternal Fire, and the magical world of Arda will perish forever.”

  “Why would it perish?” the palantír asked after a second.

  “Ah, I see. Apparently, you have dealt with Sharya-Rana, correct?”

  “Why would you think so?” There was a hint of surprise in Haladdin’s voice.

  “Because that is his theory of Arda’s make-up: two worlds, a ‘physical’ one and a ‘magical’ one, joined through the Mirror. The Elves, having crossed from the other world into this one, will unavoidably undermine its very existence with their magic, so the Mirror should be destroyed in order to isolate those worlds to their mutual benefit. Close enough?”

  “Do you mean to say that it’s all a lie?” Haladdin responded coldly.

  “Not at all! It is one of the theories of the World’s structure, but no more than that. Sharya-Rana, whom I respect greatly, held this theory, but to act in accordance with it…”

  “What do the other theories say? Please tell me, esteemed Saruman; we still have time.

  When it’s time for me to drop the palantír into Orodruin, I’ll give you warning.”

  “You are very gracious, Haladdin, thank you. Very well – the mainstream opinion is that the ‘physical’ and ‘magical’ worlds are indeed separate and the Mirror and the palantíri did indeed originate in the magical one, but they are not here, in the physical world, by chance.

  Those crystals constitute the very foundation of that other world’s existence, like that fairy-tale needle – remember, the one hidden in an egg which is hidden in a duck
which is hidden in a hare which is hidden in a chest? By destroying the Mirror with the palantíri you will simply destroy the entire magical world. The irony is that they have been placed in this non-magical world precisely for safekeeping, just like the chest in the fairy tale. Of course, you might say that these are that other magical world’s problems for which you care not. I have to disappoint you – the worlds are symmetrical.”

  “You mean to say,” Haladdin spoke slowly, “that there’s something which is the basis of our world’s existence that’s been placed for safekeeping in that other, magical world? Our own needle in an egg and so forth?”

  “Precisely. By destroying the other world you will doom ours. Sometimes twins are born conjoined; obviously, if one kills the other, he, too, will soon die of blood poisoning. When you drop the palantír into Orodruin’s maw, the other world will perish instantly, while this one will start dying a long and painful death. Nobody knows how long this dying will last –a minute, a year, a century – would you like to find out?”

  “That’s if you’re right and Sharya-Rana is wrong.”

  “Certainly. Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct? A radical experiment, as they call it in your circles?”

  The palantír was silent – Haladdin was at a loss for words.

  “Listen, Haladdin,” Saruman continued with apparent curiosity, “have you really started all this to put the Elves in their place? Aren’t you overestimating their importance?”

  “Something like this is better to overdo.”

  “Then you do believe that the Elves are about to control the entire Middle Earth? My dear doctor, this is bizarre! Whatever the Elves’ capabilities are – and they are greatly exaggerated by rumor, believe me – there’s only about fifteen thousand of them, perhaps twenty thousand, in the entire Middle Earth. Think about it – a few thousand, and there will be no more; while there are millions of Men, and their numbers keep growing. Believe me that Men are already strong enough not to be afraid of Elves; this is some kind of an inferiority complex on your part!..”

  Saruman continued after a pause: “Sharya-Rana is correct that our Arda is unique: it is the only World which allows direct contact between the physical and magical worlds, where their inhabitants – Elves and Men – can talk to each other. Just think of the possibilities this offers! In a very short time you and the Elves will live together in harmony, enriching each other with your cultural achievements.”

  “Live as directed by the Far West?” Haladdin smirked.

  “That depends on you. Do you really lack minimal self-respect, enough to think yourselves clay in the hands of some otherworldly forces? I’m honestly ashamed to hear this.”

  “So a time will come when the Elves will look at Men as something other than dung under their feet? I wish I could believe you!”

  “There was a time when Men would eat anyone not from their cave, but now you have learned to behave a little differently, haven’t you? That’s exactly how it will be with you and the Elves, if you give it time. You are so very different, and that’s precisely what makes you need each other, believe me.”

  The palantír fell silent; Haladdin slumped as if a rod had been taken out of his spine.

  “Who’s that, sir?” Tzerlag, standing some ten paces away, lower on the slope, looked at the crystal with superstitious fear.

  “Saruman, Lord of Isengard, Head of the White Council, and so on and so forth… He’s trying to talk me out of dropping the palantír into the Eternal Fire, lest the whole world perish.”

  “Is he lying?”

  “I think so,” Haladdin answered after some thought.

  In reality he was not sure of that at all; the opposite, in fact. Saruman could very well have said something like “the Nazgúl have lost the fight and decided to destroy the world with your hands on their way out” and persuasively corroborate that theory (how did Haladdin know that the Nazgúl were the good guys? Only from Sharya-Rana’s words); he could, but he did not, and somehow that fact made Haladdin trust everything the White Wizard was saying. “Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct?” Yes, that’s how it comes out.

  He has succeeded, Haladdin realized with horror. I have doubts, and therefore I have lost the right to act: to interpret doubt for the defendant’s benefit is too deeply ingrained in me.

  To do what I intended while knowing of the possible consequences (which I now do, thanks to Saruman) one has to be either God or a madman, and I’m neither. Nor can I do it and say later that I was following orders – that’s not my style… Plus you really don’t want to fry that Elvish beauty with your own hands, right? Right, I don’t, to put it mildly – is that a plus or a minus?

  Forgive me, guys… forgive me, Sharya-Rana, and you, Baron! (In his mind he went down on his knees.) Everything you’ve done has been for naught. I know that I’m betraying you and your memory, but the choice I have to make is beyond me… or any Man – only the One can make such a choice. All I can do is block my palantír from transmitting and drop it into Orodruin; let what may come do so without my participation. I’m not cut out to decide the fate of the World – I’m made from a different kind of clay… and should you want to say: from crap, not clay – I accept that.

  As if to confirm this decision of his, the palantír suddenly lit up from the inside and showed him the interior of some tower with narrow windows, something resembling a low table on curved legs, and a deathly pale – and somehow even more beautiful for that – face of Eornis.

  CHAPTER 69

  It is truly amazing what trifles change the course of history sometimes. In this case the matter was decided by the interruption of blood flow to Haladdin’s left calf muscle due to the uncomfortable position he had assumed over the past few minutes. The doctor got a cramp in his leg; when he got up awkwardly and leaned over to relieve the pain in his calf, the smooth globe of the palantír fell out of his hand and rolled slowly down the crater’s almost-level outer slope. Tzerlag, who stood a little below, interpreted his commander’s muffled oath as an order and lunged at the crystal ball…

  “No-o-o-o-o!!” The frantic yell shattered the silence.

  Too late.

  The Orocuen grabbed the palantír and froze in an awkward pose; his body shimmered with bluish-purple sparks, as if frosted. Desperately Haladdin rushed to his comrade and knocked the devil’s toy out of his hands without thinking, in one motion; it took him a couple of seconds to realize with astonishment that it had not harmed him.

  The purple sparks went out, leaving a strange frosty smell behind, and the Orocuen fell slowly sideways onto the gravel; Haladdin heard a strange clunking sound. He tried to lift the sergeant and was amazed by his body’s weight.

  “Doctor, what’s happening to me?” The Orocuen’s face, usually expressionless or smiling, showed fear and bewilderment. “Can’t feel my hands or feet… at all… what’s happening?”

  Haladdin took his wrist but jerked his hand back in surprise: the Orocuen’s hand was cold and hard as stone… Merciful God, it is stone! A couple of fingers on Tzerlag’s other hand broke off in the fall, and the doctor was now looking at the fresh break shimmering with tiny crystals – snow-white porous calcite of the bones and the darkly pink marble of the muscles shot with bright-red garnet of blood vessels – and marveling at the astonishing exactness of this stony imitation. The Orocuen’s neck and shoulders were still warm and living; feeling the arm, Haladdin realized that the boundary between stone and flesh was a bit higher than the elbow, slowly moving up the biceps. He was about to utter some comforting lie like ‘a temporary loss of sensation due to an electrical discharge,’ concealing the nature of the problem with fancy medical terminology, but the sergeant had already noticed his mangled hand and understood everything.

  “Don’t leave me like this, hear? The strike of mercy – now’s the time…”

  “What happened, Haladdin?” the palantír came to life with Saruman’s alarmed voice.r />
  “What happened?! My friend is turning to stone, that’s what! Your work, bastards?”

  “He touched the palantír?! Why did you let him…”

  “Devil take you! Lift the spell right now, you hear?”

  “I can’t do that. It’s not my spell – why would I need to do that? – and it’s impossible to lift someone else’s spell, even for me. It must have been how my stupid predecessors have tried to stop you.”

  “I don’t care who did it! Do what you can or else drag the one who did it over to your palantír!”

  “They’re all gone already… I regret this deeply, but I can do nothing for your friend even at the cost of my own life.”

  “Listen, Saruman.” Haladdin managed to get hold of himself, realizing that yelling would accomplish nothing. “It looks like my friend will turn to stone in five or six minutes. If you manage to lift the spell during that time, I’ll do what you’re asking me to do: block this palantír‘s transmission and throw it into Orodruin. How to do it is your problem, but if you can’t, I’ll do what I intended to do, although, to be honest, you’ve almost convinced me otherwise. Well?”

  “Be reasonable, Haladdin! Would you destroy a whole World – two Worlds, actually – to save one man? It won’t even save him when he dies later together with the World…”

  “I don’t give a shit about your worlds, understand?! For the last time – will you try or not?”

  “I can only repeat what I’ve said before to those idiots of the White Council: ‘What you are about to do is worse than a crime. It is a mistake.’”

  “Oh yeah? Then I’m dropping my ball into the crater! Run like hell if you can! You can figure yourself how many seconds you’ve got – I’ve never been good at figuring in my head…”

  ***

  Wolverine, lieutenant of the Secret Guard, was also facing a difficult choice at about the same time.