The Last Ringbearer

Chapter 20

Ithilien, Emyn Arnen

May 3, 3019

“What time is it?” Éowyn asked sleepily.

“Sleep on, sweetheart.” Faramir rose on his elbow a little and gently kissed the top of her head. Apparently it was a sharp movement in his sleep that woke up the girl; his wounded arm kept going numb, but he never let on, knowing that she preferred to sleep stretched along his body, her head pillowed on his shoulder. As usual, they have only fallen asleep close to sunrise, so by now the sun’s rays were already bathing the wooden buildings of Fort Emyn Arnen, getting in the narrow window of their ‘princely bedchamber.’ In the olden times the prince was always up with the dawn; being a morning person, his best working hours were before noon. Now, however, he slept late with a clear conscience: first, a honeymoon is a honeymoon; second, a prisoner has nowhere to hurry.

However, she had slipped out from under his arm already, and her laughing eyes looked at the prince with fake severity: “Listen, we’ll totally undermine the public morals of the Ithilien colony.”

“Like there’s something there to undermine,” he grumbled. Éowyn flitted to the foot of the bed, sat down there, naked and cross-legged, and began putting her ripe-wheat hairdo in order, glancing at him from time to time from under lowered eyelashes. He told her on one of their first nights, only half-joking, that looking at his beloved brushing her hair in the morning is one of the most intense and exquisite pleasures available to man, so now she kept polishing and perfecting this little ritual of theirs, jealously observing his reaction: do you still like it, darling? He smiled to himself, remembering how Prince Imrahil used to insist that northern women, for all their beauty, are a cross between a dead fish and a birch log in bed. I wonder if it’s my good luck or his bad one for all those years?

“I’ll make coffee for you.”

“Now that is certainly a blow to public morals!” Faramir laughed. “The Princess of Ithilien in the kitchen – an aristocrat’s nightmare!”

“I’m afraid they’ll have to put up with my lack of refinement and manners. For example, I intend to go hunting today and prepare some real baked venison for supper, and let them all blow their gaskets! I can’t abide our cook’s fare any more; the guy apparently knows no spices other than arsenic and strychnine!”

She should go, he thought, and perhaps we’ll start the Game tonight? Lately he and Éowyn were allowed to leave the fort one at a time – enough to be grateful for; the hostage system has its advantages.

“Will you read to me tonight?”

“Certainly. About Princess Allandale again?”

“Well… yes!”

Those evening readings were another of their rituals; Éowyn had a few favorite stories which she was ready to hear again and again, like a child. Like most of Rohan’s elite, the girl was illiterate, so the magical world that Faramir laid open before her astonished her imagination. That was the beginning of their relationship… or perhaps it started earlier?

…On the day of the battle for Pelennor fortifications the prince was commanding the right defensive flank; he fought in the front line, so it was bewildering that a heavy armor- piercing arrow struck him from behind – in the trapezius muscle, to the left of the base of his neck. Its three-sided tip had channels for poison, so by the time the good knight Mithrandir got him to Minas Tirith the prince was in a bad way. For some reason he was carried to a far room in the hospital, and, most astonishingly, forgotten there. Completely helpless, he lay right on the stone floor – the poison had caused blindness and paralysis, so that he could not even cry for help – feeling the cold of the grave spreading through his body from the already numb left arm and neck. His brain still functioned normally, and he understood clearly that he was believed to be dead.

An eternity passed, full of loneliness and despair, and then he felt the sharp taste of some oily liquid on his lips; the sensation seemed familiar, dredging up a half-forgotten name: athelas. The cold retreated a little, as if unwillingly, and a commanding voice floated out of the darkness: “Prince, if you’re conscious, move the fingers of your right hand.”

How was he supposed to move fingers he couldn’t feel? Perhaps he should remember a movement in all its details… here, he’s taking his sword out of the scabbard, feeling the supple leather of its grip…

“Very well!”

Did it work? Apparently, yes.

“Now, a bigger challenge. One movement will mean ‘yes’, two mean ‘no’. Try saying ‘no’.”

He tried to imagine making a fist twice… whatever for? Oh yes: here, he’s taking a pen from the table, writes down a word, puts it down; now he has to pick it up again to make a correction…

“Wonderful. Allow me to introduce myself: Aragorn, son of Arathorn. As the direct descendant of Isildur, I wish to express my royal gratitude to you: the dynasty of Stewards of Gondor, of which you are the last heir, had maintained my throne well. Now this arduous task is over: I have come to relieve your dynasty of this burden. From now on your name will be the first of the glorious families of the Reunited Kingdom. Do you understand what I’m saying, Faramir?”

He understood it all perfectly, but moved his fingers twice – ‘no’ – otherwise it would mean that he implicitly agreed with this nonsense. A descendant of Isildur, right – why not Ilúvatar himself?

“You have always been an alien to them, Prince.” Aragorn’s voice was quiet and compassionate, as if he was a bosom friend. “It’s quite understandable that they greatly resented your studies, that’s not a royal pursuit. However, they even blamed you for creating the Ithilien regiment and setting up an intelligence network beyond Anduin, didn’t they?”

Pride would not let him answer ‘yes,’ honesty precluded answering ‘no:’ all this was true, this Aragorn really did know his Gondorian politics. When the war broke out, Faramir, himself an excellent hunter, formed a special unit for forest combat out of free shafts (and not a few outlaws) – the Ithilien regiment; the famous Cirith Ungol Rangers soon discovered that their monopoly on lightning raids through enemy’s rear was over. The prince personally commanded the Ithilienians in a number of skirmishes (for example, the one that trapped and destroyed a whole caravan of mûmakil) and even had time to write something like a manual for what would much later be called ‘commando warfare.’ As a result, the aristocrats in the capital joked that he was about to add a flail and a black mask to his familial coat of arms. And long before the war Faramir, who had an honest and profound love of the East and its culture, had set up a regular collection of military and political information in its countries through volunteer efforts of like-minded people – the first real intelligence agency in Western lands. Making his case on its reports, the prince argued in the Royal Council for cooperation with states beyond the Anduin, earning himself the ‘defeatist’ label and almost getting branded as an enemy collaborationist.

“Your father had always thought you a softie, so much so as to openly start looking for ways to disinherit you when Boromir died… But this didn’t bother you in the least; you even joked back then that since the pen had callused your finger, the scepter would wear your palms to the bone – very well said, Prince, short and to the point! So – ” suddenly Aragorn’s voice became dry and hard, “let’s say that we’re simply back to the starting point: you still have no claim to the throne of Gondor, but the new king will be me rather than your wayward brother, the Valar rest his soul. Are you listening?”

‘Yes’

“The situation, then, is like this: Denethor is dead; this is a hard blow, but I think you’ll survive it. There’s a war on, the country is leaderless, and therefore I, Aragorn, the heir of Isildur, having today defeated the hordes of the East on the Field of Pelennor, accept the crown of the Reunited Kingdom at the army’s request. This is set; alternatives exist only as far as your own fate, Prince. Option number one: you abdicate the throne (remember that yours is a dynasty of Stewards, rather than Kings!) and leave Minas Tirith to become a prince of one of the lands of Gondor; I think that Ithilien will suit you just fine. Option number two: you refuse, but then I will not treat you – whatever for? – and will assume the crown after your imminent demise. By the way, nobody but me knows that you’re still alive; the funeral is set for today, and I will simply let it proceed. After a few hours you’ll hear the tombstone seal your family crypt… I’m sure your imagination can fill in the rest. Do you understand, Faramir?”

The prince’s fingers were silent. He had always had the cool courage of a philosopher, but the idea of being buried alive can instill crushing dread into any soul.

“Oh no, this won’t do at all. If you don’t give me a clear answer in half a minute, I’ll leave, and in a couple of hours, when the athelas wears off, the undertakers will come. Believe me that I much prefer option one, but if you would rather have the crypt…”

‘No’

“No – meaning yes? You agree to become Prince of Ithilien?”

‘Yes’

“We have a mutual understanding, then; your word is quite sufficient – so far. Some time from now you’ll regain your ability to speak, and I will visit you with Prince Imrahil, who is the temporary regent of the town and country after the passing of Denethor. By then Imrahil will have examined my royal credentials and will confirm them to you; you, in turn, will confirm your decision to resign as Steward of Gondor and move to Ithilien. The entire Gondor knows of the Prince’s nobility and his friendship with you, so I expect that the people will duly accept his announcement. Do you agree? Answer: yes or no?!”

‘Yes’

“By the way, I’ll answer your unspoken question: why don’t I do away with you, option two being both simple and reliable? I’m being quite pragmatic here: an alive, abdicated Faramir in Ithilien is harmless, whereas his dead body in a crypt of the Stewards of Gondor would no doubt spawn a legion of pretenders – false Faramirs. Oh, and another thing: I’m certain that you would not go against your given word, but just in case, bear this in mind: no one but me in the entire Middle Earth can heal you, and this healing will take a long time yet and can take unexpected turns… do you understand me?”

‘Yes’ (What’s not to understand? A simple poisoning would be the least of his worries; what if he were turned into a vegetable, to drool and soil himself for the rest of his life?)

“Excellent! I’ll say just one more thing in conclusion, because I believe that it’s important to you…” To the prince’s considerable amazement, there was genuine emotion in Aragorn’s voice now. “I promise to rule Gondor in such a way that you, Faramir, will never have a single occasion to think that you would have done it better. I promise that the Reunited Kingdom will prosper and flourish like never before. And I also promise that the story of the King and the Steward will be so treated in all the chronicles as to glorify you forever. Now drink this and sleep.” He came back to conscience still in the thrall of darkness and speechlessness, but the terrible cold had retreated to the location of the wound, and – happiness! – he could feel pain and could even move a little. There were voices nearby, but they fell silent… And then She appeared.

Chapter 21

First there was only her hand – small but unwomanly strong; the hand of a rider and a swordswoman, as he immediately determined. The girl did not possess the habits of a real nurse, but it was obvious that treating the wounded was nothing new to her. Why is she doing everything one-handed, though – an injury of her own, perhaps? He tried estimating her height from how far she could reach sitting on the edge of his bed – it worked out to about five and a half feet. Once he was incredibly lucky: she leaned over him, and her silky hair brushed the prince’s face. Thus he learned that she was not wearing her hair up (that meant a woman of the North, from Rohan); but most important was that now he would never confuse this smell with any other, an aroma like that of a steppe breeze, mixing the dry heat of the sun-kissed earth with the pungent refreshing smell of sagebrush.

In the meantime Aragorn’s medicine was working; the very next day he could speak his first words, which were, unsurprisingly: “What’s your name?”

“Éowyn.”

Éowyn. Like the sound of a bell – not a regular brass bell, but one of those porcelain bells that are sometimes brought from the Far East. Yes, the voice fit her owner quite well – at least it fit the image he had put together in his mind.

“So what’s the matter with your left arm, Éowyn?”

“Oh, you can see already?!”

“Alas, no; this is just a conclusion I’ve reached in my musings.”

“Really? Explain!”

He described her appearance as he had put it together from the scraps of information he had.

“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “All right, tell me – what kind of eyes do I have?”

“Most certainly large and wide-set.”

“No, I mean the color?”

“The color, hmm… Green!”

“I’ve believed you!” there was genuine disappointment in the girl’s voice, “but you must’ve simply seen me somewhere before.” “I swear by anything, Éowyn, I’ve simply named my favorite color. So I guessed right? But you still haven’t told me about your arm. Have you been wounded?”

“That’s only a scratch, believe me, especially compared to yours. It’s just that men have a habit of brushing us aside when dividing the spoils.”

Éowyn described the Battle of Pelennor Field clearly and crisply, like a professional warrior, all the while taking care of him, now giving him medicine, then changing the dressing on the wound. It seemed to Faramir that she radiated some kind of special warmth; it was this warmth, rather than medicines, that chased away the deathly chill tormenting his body. But when, moved by gratitude, he covered Éowyn’s hand with his, she took it away politely but firmly and left her charge, saying: “This is quite unnecessary, Prince,” and instructing him to ask for her should a real need arise. Saddened by this strange rebuff, he dozed (this was real sleep now, healing and refreshing), and upon awakening heard the tail end of a conversation, recognizing Éowyn as one of the participants and Aragorn – much to his surprise – as the other.

“…so you’ll have to go to Ithilien with him.”

“But why, Ari? You know that I can’t be without you now.”

“It’s necessary, dear. It won’t be for very long – three weeks, perhaps a month.”

“That is very long, but I will do what you need, don’t worry. You want me to be by his side?”

“Yes, you will complete his treatment, you’re good at it. Plus you will check out how he does in the new place.”

“You know, he’s very nice.”

“Of course! You will have excellent conversation, I think you won’t be bored with him.”

“Bored? Oh, you’re too kind!..”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean it to sound like that…” The voices went away, a door banged, and Faramir thought that although this was none of his business, nevertheless… Suddenly he cried out from an abrupt pain: previously unseen light flooded his eyes and seemed to burn the retina that had grown unaccustomed to seeing. She was already by his side, holding his hand in alarm: “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Éowyn – I think I’m getting my sight back.”

“Really?!”

Everything around him swam in rainbow areolas, but the pain subsided quickly. When the prince finally managed to wipe away tears and take his first look at Éowyn, his heart stopped for a moment and then poured a heat wave through his body: he was looking at the girl he had pictured in his imagination. Not a similar girl, but that exact one, from the color of her eyes to the way she brushed her hair aside. I’ve created her myself, he thought in resignation, and now I will never get away.

…The fort of Emyn Arnen, now the official residence of His Highness the Prince of Ithilien, was not, strictly speaking, a fort. It was a log house of monumental proportions, with three floors, an unbelievably labyrinthine plan, and a cornucopia of architectural excesses: all sorts of turrets, dormers, and outside galleries. Nevertheless, the whole thing looked surprisingly harmonious. One could see the hand of the master craftsmen of Angmar in the construction – it is there, in the forests of the far North, that this wood-building technique flourishes. The house was impeccably positioned from the landscaping standpoint, but horribly from a military one, not protecting anything. Besides, the unknown fortification ‘experts’ that had built the stockade around it had done it in such an obvious revulsion for their craft that it could only serve as an exhibit for the relevant course at the Academy of Military Engineering: “How not to build external fortifications: find eight mistakes.” This must have been why Emyn Arnen had been abandoned by the Mordorians without a fight as indefensible, and passed to its current owners intact.

It was not quite clear, actually, who these new owners were. The Prince of Ithilien could only be called such in jest, as he was not permitted to even leave the fort alone. Much to her surprise, his guest Éowyn, the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan, had discovered that she shared the prince’s weird status. She had asked for her sword back without a second thought, adding jokingly that she didn’t feel quite dressed without it, and got a joke in response: “A pretty girl looks even prettier underdressed.” Éowyn frowned in irritation: even by her uninhibited taste this compliment by a lieutenant of the White Company (forty men tasked by Aragorn to their protection) bordered on a faux pas. She made a note for herself to be on more official terms with this bunch from now on, and requested a meeting with the company’s commander, Captain Beregond.

After all, every joke has its limits: they are not in Minas Tirith any more, walking these woods unarmed, while there may still be goblins about, is simply unsafe. – Oh, Her Highness has nothing to fear in this respect; the goblins are her bodyguards’ problem. – Does the Captain mean to say that those four thugs are going to accompany her everywhere? – Yes, certainly, and this is by direct order of His Majesty; although they can be replaced, if Her Highness dislikes these four. – By the way, Aragorn is neither her sovereign nor guardian, and if this is how it’s going to be, she’s coming back to Minas Tirith right away… actually, to Edoras, not Minas Tirith! – Unfortunately, this would be impossible without a written order from His Majesty. – So… not to put too fine a face on it, is she a prisoner? – Why, Your Highness! Prisoners stay under lock and key, whereas you can ride anywhere you want. Even to Minas Morgul, if you wish, but only with bodyguards and unarmed.

Strangely, only now did Éowyn realize that Faramir’s lack of a sword could be due to earthly reasons rather than the prince’s poetic disposition.

By process of elimination it would seem that Beregond was the real master of Ithilien, but one only had to see him move charily through the corridors of the fort, avoiding eye contact with his prisoner, to understand that this was rank nonsense. The captain was a ruined man, because he knew that he had guarded Denethor’s chambers on that tragic day and that he was the one who announced the King’s suicide to the public – that is, he knew, but he could not remember a thing. His memory of that nightmarish day sported a large charred hole, in which Mithrandir’s whitish shadow flitted sometimes; the knight seemed to have had a hand in those events, but Beregond could not figure it out. It is hard to say what prevented the captain from taking his own life; perhaps he realized that by doing so he would have accepted the guilt for the crime, to the delight of the real murderers. In Minas Tirith a wall of scorn had surrounded him since that day – few believed the self-immolation story – so Aragorn could find no better man to lead the White Company. The job required a man who could not possibly conspire with Faramir – and here Aragorn had made a mistake: for all his knowledge of people, he had not foreseen that the prince, whom Beregond had often dandled on his knee, would be perhaps the only person in all of Gondor to believe in the captain’s innocence.

As for the men of the White Company, who not only guarded the fort but also filled all the housekeeping jobs (from majordomo to cook), they did not talk to the prince much at all. ‘Yes, Your Highness; no, Your Highness; I don’t know, Your Highness’ – that was the extent of the conversation, with ‘don’t know’ a clear favorite. They were ordered to guard, so they guarded; were they ordered to kill him, they would undoubtedly do that, too. Faramir could not figure out whose orders those cutthroats obeyed, but he did not believe even for a moment that it was Beregond. At the same time, there seemed to be no messages from Aragorn, either, unless they had clandestine communications with Minas Tirith without the captain’s knowledge – but then why make it so complex?

Indeed it was a strange crowd that made its home in Emyn Arnen that spring, and the funniest thing was that all the participants of The Prince of Ithilien and His Court show made a touchingly united effort to keep that strangeness from becoming the subject of discussion outside its walls, where real life went on.

In real life it was a rare day that Faramir did not bless a new group of subjects – yet another group of settlers from Gondor. Many of those were not at all eager to show themselves to the court, preferring instead to huddle in the farthest reaches of the forest; it was clear that they regarded tax collectors as a much more harmful and dangerous threat than the ‘goblins’ that supposedly infested those thickets. During the war those people have learned to wield weapons expertly and got out of the habit of bowing to landlords, so the Prince of Ithilien would not have been able to control the fortified forest hamlets these people were building even if he wanted to, which he did not. All he did was try to convey to the newcomers that they would not be fleeced in his demesne, and the message seemed to be getting through: lately grim armed men from the far hamlets have been showing up at the main Settlement, with pointed inquiries about prices for honey and smoked venison. That year axes and hammers sounded throughout Ithilien: the settlers built houses, cleared forests for fields, put up mills and dry distilleries. They were settling the forests beyond Anduin for good.

Chapter 22

More than a month has gone by since the end of the Mordorian campaign, and still Éowyn had no message from Aragorn. Well, who knows what the circumstances are… If she had reached any conclusions already, she kept them to herself and her behavior had not changed a bit. The only difference was that she no longer asked Beregond daily for news from Minas Tirith. It also seemed to Faramir that her remarkable gray-green eyes have acquired a new, colder, bluish tint, but that would have been really supernatural. The girl treated the prince with genuine warmth and sympathy, but she had channeled their closeness into nothing but friendship from the very beginning, and he had to accept that.

They were sitting at the dinner table in the Knights Hall of the fort, unwelcoming because of its large size, when a Gondorian lieutenant in a dusty cloak showed up, accompanied by several soldiers. Faramir immediately offered the messenger wine and venison, but the man shook his head. His business is so urgent that he will only change horses and ride back. He has the King’s orders to pick up Éowyn from Emyn Arnen (the girl leaned forward and her shining face seemed to dispel the gloom of the hall) and escort her to Edoras, to the court of King Éomer.

He followed up with some Minas Tirith news of which Faramir had only consciously registered an unfamiliar name: Arwen. Arwen – sounds like the tolling of a gong, he thought fleetingly; I wonder what fight this gong announces… The prince looked up at Éowyn and his heart fell: her face was a bloodless mask of pain, her eyes seeming to take up half of it – a child who had just been cruelly and mercilessly tricked and is now about to be publicly mocked to boot.

But this show of weakness lasted for only a moment. Then the blood of six generations of steppe knights asserted itself: the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan may not behave like a miller’s daughter seduced by the landlord. Smiling charmingly (although the smile held about as much warmth as moonlight upon a snowy White Mountains pass), Éowyn told the lieutenant that his orders were very strange, as she was not the subject of the man who called himself the King of Gondor and Arnor. In any event, they are presently outside the Reunited Kingdom, so if the Prince of Ithilien (a nod towards Faramir) does not object, she would like to avail herself of his hospitality for some more time.

The Prince of Ithilien had no objections, of course, and the only thing that really upset him about the situation was this: he was unarmed, so if Aragorn’s men were under orders to remove the girl forcibly if necessary, he would have to fight with only the dagger he has just used to cut venison. A truly fitting end for the last heir of the ill-fated Anarion dynasty! At least this tragic farce will be concluded in its prevalent style… The prince glanced at Beregond, who stood on the right side of the table, and was startled by an astonishing change that had come over the captain: his gaze was firm as in the old days, and his hand rested familiarly on the hilt of his sword. Neither of them needed any words to understand that the old warrior had made his choice and was ready to die by Faramir’s side.

Whereas the Gondorian officer was obviously perplexed: apparently his orders did not include any violence against royal persons. Éowyn smiled again – with real charm this time – and firmly took the upper hand:

“I’m afraid that you’ll have to stay after all, Lieutenant. Do try the venison, it’s especially good today. Your soldiers must need rest, too.” She addressed the butler: “Gunt! See the King’s men to the kitchen and make sure they’re well fed after their journey. Oh, and arrange for their baths!”

Éowyn had the fortitude to stay until the end of the meal and even keep up the conversation: “Please pass the salt… Thank you… So what’s the news from Mordor, Lieutenant? We’re quite cut off, here in the boonies…” It was clear, though, that she was holding on with the last of her strength. Looking at her, Faramir remembered some over-tempered glass he once saw: it looked just like a regular piece of glass, but shattered into tiny pieces with a tiny flick.

Of course he did not sleep that night; sitting by the lamp, he kept futilely wracking his brains, trying to think of ways to help. The prince was an expert in philosophy and pretty well versed in military and intelligence crafts, but to be honest, he knew little about the intricacies of the female soul. So when his door opened without a knock and there was transparently pale Éowyn, in a nightshirt and barefoot, he was completely bewildered. She was already inside, though, stepping like a somnambulant; then the nightshirt fell down at her feet, and she ordered, head held high but eyelashes down: “Take me, Prince! Now!”

He picked up her light body – goodness, she’s shivering like crazy, must be nervous shakes! – carried her to his bed and covered her with two warm cloaks. What else do I have here? He looked around – aha, Elvish wine, just what she needs.

“Here, drink this, it’ll warm you up.”

“Wouldn’t you rather warm me up in another fashion?” She spoke with her eyes closed; her body, taut as a bowstring, was still shivering.

“Certainly not now. You’d hate me for the rest of your life, and with good reason.”

Then she knew for sure that, finally, it was all right to cry… So she cried, with abandon, like a child, while he was hugging that shivering, sobbing, infinitely dear girl to his chest and whispering something into her ear – he never could remember what he said, nor did it matter; his lips were salty with her tears. And when she was done pouring out her pain and disgust, she crawled back under the cloaks, took his hand and asked quietly: “Please tell me something… nice.” So he recited the best poems he knew, and every time he stopped she would squeeze his hand, as if afraid of being lost in the night, and ask with an inimitable child’s intonation: “More! Please, a little more!..”

She fell asleep in the early morning, still holding his hand, so he waited by the side of the bed until her sleep grew deeper; only then did he kiss her temple gently and removed himself to the armchair. He woke up a couple of hours later from some small noise and immediately heard an angry “Please turn away!” and then a plaintive “Listen, give me something to put on – I can’t walk around like this!” a few seconds later. Then, standing in the door (with his hunting jacket on), she suddenly spoke quietly and very earnestly: “You know, those poems… It’s something amazing, I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’ll come this evening, and you’ll read me some more of that, all right?” To make a long story short, by the time Faramir sent a message to Edoras inquiring whether Éomer had any objections to his sister’s decision to become Princess of Ithilien, evening readings were an indispensable part of their family life.

“…Are you listening?”

Éowyn had long since washed up and dressed, and was now gazing at the prince, upset.

“I’m sorry, baby; I’ve been thinking.”

“About something sad?”

“More like something dangerous. What if His Majesty the King of Gondor and Arnor sends us a wedding gift? Your joke about arsenic and strychnine might just be prophetic.”

By saying this he had broken an unspoken commandment never to mention Aragorn inside these walls. Only once, at the very beginning of their romance, did Éowyn say (abruptly and with no connection to the preceding conversation): “If you want to know what he’s like as a lover,” she was looking out the window and did not see his gesture of protest, “I can utterly honestly say: nothing much. You see, he’s accustomed only to taking, all the time and in every thing; a real macho, you know…” Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Of course, most women want nothing else, but I’m not one of them…”

She looked at Faramir questioningly for a while, then nodded and said thoughtfully, as if making some final conclusion: “Yes, he totally could… Do you have a plan for how to avoid such a gift?”

“Yes, I do, but all depends on whether Beregond will be with us.”

“Forgive me if this is not my business, but… this man killed your father. And a father is a father, no matter who he is.”

“I think that Beregond is not at fault. What’s more, I intend to prove it today, first and foremost to himself.”

“Why today?”

“Because it was unwise to do it before. That day in the dining hall he behaved recklessly. I haven’t spoken to him since then precisely to allay any suspicions the White Company guys might have, but now it looks like it’s now or never. In other words, please ask him to come see me for some innocuous reason, and make sure to speak to him in public – we have no secrets! And when you go hunting, try to lose your bodyguard, casual-like, and ask the people about a certain forest hamlet…”

There was a faint glimmer of hope in Beregond’s eyes when he entered – perhaps not all is lost?

“Hail, Your Highness!”

“Hello, Beregond; let’s not be so official. I would like you to help me contact His Majesty.” The prince rummaged in a cargo box by the wall and carefully placed a large ball of smoky crystal on the table.

“A Seeing Stone!” The captain was amazed.

“Yes, this is a palantír. The other one is in Minas Tirith. For some reason Aragorn doesn’t want me to use it myself and had a spell put on it. So please, look into it…”

“No!” Beregond shook his head in despair; terror was on his face. “Anything but that! I don’t want to see Denethor’s charred hands!”

“So you’ve seen them before?” The prince felt a sudden mortal weariness – did he, in fact, misjudge this man?

“No, but they told me… Anyone who looks into his palantír sees them!”

“Don’t worry, Beregond.” There was relief in Faramir’s voice. “This is not Denethor’s palantír; that one is at Minas Tirith, and no danger to you.”

“Really?” With some trepidation the captain picked up the Seeing Stone and looked into it for some time, then put it down with a sigh. “Forgive me, Prince, but I can see nothing.”

“You have already seen everything you need, Beregond. You are not guilty of Denethor’s death; you can sleep calmly.”

“What?! What did you say?”

“You are not guilty of Denethor’s death,” the prince repeated. “Forgive me, but I had to trick you: this is, indeed, his palantír. It is true that blackened fingers can be seen in it, but only those who were involved in the murder of the King of Gondor see them. You saw nothing, so you’re innocent. On that day your will had been paralyzed by someone’s powerful magic, most likely Elvish.”

“Is this true?” Beregond whispered. “Perhaps you just want to console me, and this is some other palantír…” (Please tell me it’s not so!)

“Think about it – who would give me another palantír? They only gave this one back to me because they believe it to be irretrievably damaged; they can see nothing in it past Denethor’s hands, which block the entire field of vision. Luckily, they don’t even suspect that people innocent of the crime can still use it.”

“So why did you tell me that it was another one?”

“Well, you see… you’re trusting and easily influenced, Beregond, and the Elves and Mithrandir have used that. I was afraid that you’d convince yourself that you could see that picture; self-hypnosis does weirder things sometimes… But now, praise Eru, it’s over.”

“It’s over,” Beregond repeated hoarsely. He kneeled and stared at the prince with such doglike devotion that the latter was embarrassed. “So you will let me serve you, just like before?”

“Yes, I will, but please rise immediately. Now, tell me: am I the sovereign of Ithilien to you?”

“How else, Your Highness?!”

“If so, do I have the right, while remaining a vassal of the Crown of Gondor, to replace the personal guard imposed on me by the King?”

“Certainly, but this is easier said than done. The White Company is only nominally under my command; I’m more of a quartermaster here.”

“Yes, I’ve figured that out. Who are they, by the way – Dúnedain?”

“The soldiers are, but as for officers and sergeants – those are all from the King’s Secret Guard. Nobody knows where they came from to Gondor; there’re rumors –” Beregond shot a glance at the door, “that they’re living dead. Nor can I figure out who their chief is.”

“Well, well… in any case we should get rid of these guys, the sooner the better. So, Captain – will you take the risk by my side?”

“You have saved my honor; therefore, my life is yours with no reservations. But three against forty…”

“I think that we’re way more than three.” Beregond stared at the prince in amazement. “About a week ago the men from one of the forest hamlets brought a cart of smoked deer meat to the fort and got into an argument with the gate guards – those demanded that they leave their bows outside, as is their procedure. There was a black-haired guy there who made a big racket: how come noblemen can enter the Prince’s residence armed, but the merry men from the Blackbird Hamlet can’t? Do you remember?”

“Yes, I recall something like that; so?”

“So that guy was Baron Grager, lieutenant of the Ithilien regiment and my resident spy in Khand before the war. I’m inclined to think that he’s not alone in that Blackbird Hamlet. Your task is to establish contact with Grager, then we’ll play it by ear. You and I will only contact each other via a dead drop from now on – if you stand on the sixteenth step of the spiral staircase in the northern wing, there is a small crack on the left wall at elbow height, just right for a note. One can’t be seen using the drop either from the top or the bottom of the stairs, I’ve checked. Now. Once you leave here, pretend to go on a drinking binge for a couple of days, since I’ve asked you to try and contact Aragorn via the palantír, and you saw Denethor’s hands in it. Don’t overdo it, though: the White officers seem very perceptive.”

That same evening the first crime occurred in the Settlement – arson. Some idiot fired – no, not the house of a successful romantic rival, nor the warehouse of an innkeeper who refused to pour him one on credit, nor the hayloft of a haughty neighbor. Rather, someone burned down the pigeon coop belonging to a grim single blacksmith who had moved here from Anfalas and apparently have kept some city habits. The blacksmith loved his pigeons beyond all else, and promised a silver mark to whoever would lead him to the arsonist. The local police, in the persons of two White Company sergeants, turned the neighborhood upside down: knowing the mores of the Anfalasians, it was a safe bet that if the guilty party were not jailed quickly, very soon they would have to investigate a premeditated murder.

Faramir listened to this crazy story with an eyebrow raised high – he was very surprised. More precisely, he really was surprised. There were only two possibilities: either the foe had made his first major blunder, or, conversely, he has figured out the prince’s entire plan. Either way the Game has begun; it has begun earlier than he expected and not how he expected, but there was no turning back.

Chapter 23

Mountains of Shadow, Hotont pass

May 12, 3019

“There’s your Ithilien.” The mountain Troll put down the sack and pointed forward, where the thick chaparral of low scrub oak piled up in the gorge below like dense clouds of light- green smoke. “I can go no further, but you won’t get lost, the path is well-trod. You’ll hit a stream in about an hour; the ford is a bit downstream. Looks scary, but it’s fine to cross. The thing there is not to be scared and step right into the eddies, that’s where the water is calmest. Just re-pack and go.”

“Thank you, Matun!” Haladdin firmly shook the guide’s shovel-wide hand. The Troll resembled a bear in both looks and demeanor: a good-natured placid honey-eater capable of turning, in a blink of an eye, into a deadly fighting machine fearsome even more in its swiftness and cunning than in its monstrous strength. The bulbous nose, the unkempt red beard, the expression of a yokel who just saw a carnival magician pull a gold coin out of his ear – all these concealed an excellent warrior, both skilled and ruthless. Looking at him, Haladdin always recalled what he had heard once: peaceful family men make the best fighters – when a man like this one, coming home from work one day, finds nothing but charred bones in the ruins of his home.

He glanced once again at the snowy masses of the Mountains of Shadow looming over them – not even Tzerlag would have been able to get their company through all these ice pools, vertical moss-covered walls and vast rhododendron-covered slopes.

“When you get back to the base, please take care to remind Ivar to meet us in this same place in July.”

“No worries, buddy: the chief never forgets anything. We have an agreement, so we’ll be here through last week of July come hell or high water.”

“Right. And if we’re not here by August first, drink one to the rest of our souls.” In parting, Matun slapped Tzerlag’s shoulder so that he barely kept his feet: “Be well, scout!” He and the Orocuen had become fast friends during the last few days. Of course, he did not even nod at Tangorn; had he only leave to do what he wanted to this Gondorian dude… Whatever, the officers know better. He had fought in Ivar the Drummer’s guerilla band since the beginning of the occupation and knew full well that one is supposed to wait for a scouting team’s return at the rendezvous point for no more than three days, and here the orders were for a full week! A mission of special importance, see? So the Gondorian dude must not be here just for show, either.

Yes, Haladdin thought, looking at the rhythmically bobbing pack on the baron’s back, it all depends on Tangorn now: whether he can protect us in Ithilien the way we protected him up to now. He’s Prince Faramir’s personal friend – that’s great, but we have to get to this wonderful prince first. Plus it may very well turn out that this Faramir is nothing but Aragorn’s puppet, while the baron has rather peculiar relations with Minas Tirith authorities – he may have already been declared an outlaw… In other words, we may easily hang together, either in the forest if we run into a Gondorian patrol, or on the wall of Emyn Arnen; the funniest thing is that in the forest the baron will hang with us, while in the fort we’ll hang with him. Yeah, the right company is key…

Such gloomy thoughts must have bothered the baron about ten days ago, when they confirmed that the route to Ithilien through Morgul Vale and the Cirith Ungol pass had been sealed shut by Elvish outposts, which meant that they had to seek help from the guerillas in the Mountains of Shadow. The worst fate would have been to run into one of the smaller bands that acknowledged no authority and were seeking nothing but revenge; no talk about any mission would have helped, as the guerillas now killed their prisoners with no less cruelty than their enemies did. Fortunately, using Sharya-Rana’s information, Tzerlag managed to locate in the Shara-Teg Gorge a well-regulated company reporting to the main command of the Resistance. It was led by a commissioned officer, one Lieutenant Ivar, a one-armed veteran of the North Army. A native of this area, he had turned the gorge into an unassailable fastness; among other things, he instituted a remarkable audible warning system on all the observation posts, earning himself the nickname “the Drummer.”

The lieutenant had weighed Haladdin’s nazgúl ring fearlessly in his hand, nodded and asked only one question: what can he do to assist sir Field Medic in his mission? Escort their recon team to Ithilien? No problem. His opinion is that they should use the Hotont pass; since it’s considered to be impassable during this time of year, it’s most likely unguarded from the Ithilien side. Unfortunately, his best guide, one Matun, is away on a mission. Can you wait three or four days? No problem, then; this will let you rest and fatten up a little, too – it’ll be one arduous trek… Only when all three of them got back the weapons of which they had been relieved by the forward guard did Tangorn return the poison he had borrowed from the doctor.

Haladdin had never been to this part of the country before, so now he observed the daily life of the Shara-Teg Gorge with genuine interest. The mountain Trolls lived spartanly but conducted themselves with truly princely dignity; to an outsider, only their hospitality often went beyond any reasonable measure, acutely embarrassing Haladdin. At least now he understood where the amazing ambience of the Barad-Dur house of his classmate Kumai came from.

The Trolls have always lived together in large tight-knit families, and since the only way to put up a house big enough for thirty people on a steep slope is to build up, their abodes were thick-walled stone towers twenty to thirty feet high. The stonemasonry experience accumulated in the building of these miniature fortresses later made Troll expatriates into the leading city builders of Mordor. Their other line was metallurgy. First they perfected blacksmithing, making weapons cheap and therefore widely available; then they mastered working with iron-nickel alloys (most of the ores in the region were self-legated), and since then the swords worn by every local male over the age of twelve were the best in Middle Earth. Not surprisingly, the Trolls never knew any authority other than their own elders: only a total idiot will attack a Trollish tower and sacrifice half of the attacking force only to gain a dozen scrawny sheep as booty (or church tithe).

The Mordorian powers understood this well and therefore did nothing but recruit warriors here, which much flattered the Trolls. Later, though, when mining and metal refining became their main occupation, the sale of those commodities was hit with a stupendous tax, but the Trolls did not seem to care – their indifference to wealth and luxury was already legendary, along with their stubbornness. This also gave rise to a popular legend that the known Trolls were only a half of that people. The other half (mistakenly called ‘gnomes’ or ‘dwarves’ in the Western countries, in confusion with another mythical race – that of underground smiths) supposedly were wealth-crazy and spent all their lives in secret underground tunnels, searching for gold and gems; they were allegedly miserly, aggressive, treacherous – in other words, a mirror image of the real, above-ground Trolls. Be that as it may, the fact remains: the Trollish community gave Mordor many outstanding personalities, from generals and bladesmiths to scientists and preachers, but not a single merchant of note.

When the Western allies implementing ‘the final solution of the Mordorian problem’ have finished ‘mopping up’ the foothills and went to work on the Trolls in their Ash and Shadow Mountains gorges, they quickly discovered that fighting mountain men was rather different from collecting ears in Gorgoroth. The Trollish villages have been decimated or worse – thousands of men have perished in the march on Esgaroth and on the Field of Pelennor – but waging war in the confines of the mountains pretty much nullifies numerical advantages. The mountain dwellers always had the option to give battle in the narrowest points, where ten good warriors can hold back an entire army for hours, while catapults on the slopes above methodically pound the paralyzed enemy column. Having thrice buried large companies of the enemy under man-made avalanches in the gorges, the Trolls then expanded their operations to the foothills, so that the Easterlings and the Elves alike did not dare stir out of a few well-fortified outposts at night. In the meantime, people from the plains kept arriving at the mountain villages which were now guerilla bases – if the end is near, better to meet it armed and not alone.

Chapter 24

There were many intriguing personalities among those arriving in the Shara-Teg Gorge in those days. The doctor met one of them, a certain maestro Haddami, at Ivar’s headquarters, where the small parchment-faced Umbarian with inexpressibly sad eyes worked as a clerk, from time to time offering Ivar highly interesting ideas for reconnaissance operations. The maestro had been one of the country’s leading crooks; during the fall of Barad-Dur he was serving a five-year sentence there for a grandiose scam involving countersigned bank drafts. Being a financial ignoramus, Haladdin could not appreciate the technical details, but judging by the fact that the defrauded merchants (the heads of the three oldest trading firms of the capital) have expended a titanic effort to keep the prosecution out of court and thus out of the public eye, the scheme must have been very good indeed. With no opportunities to ply his trade in the ruined city, Haddami dug up his secreted gold and headed south towards his historical motherland, but the exigencies of war brought him to the guerillas instead of to Umbar.

The maestro was a fountainhead of assorted talents; having sorely missed learned conversation, he willingly demonstrated those to Haladdin. For example, he could perfectly imitate anyone’s handwriting, which was certainly very useful in his craft. Nor was this simple forgery of signatures; far from it. After studying a few pages of the doctor’s notes, Haddami wrote a meaningful text which Haladdin first thought to be his own – I must have written and forgotten it; now he had found it and is playing games with my mind…

It turned out to be simultaneously simpler and more complex. Haddami was a genius graphologist able to put together a complete psychological profile of an author and then morph into him, so that the texts he wrote in other people’s names were authentic, in a way. After the maestro told Haladdin everything he had learned about him from a few handwritten lines, the doctor experienced bewilderment liberally spiced with fear – this was real magic, and not benign, either. For a moment Haladdin was even sorely tempted to show the maestro some notes of Tangorn’s, although he clearly realized that this would have been even worse than simply snooping in someone’s private diary. No one has the right to know more about a person than he is willing to tell, and both friendship and love die together with the person’s right to privacy.

That was when he had a weird idea to submit Eloar’s letter (from the dead Elf’s possessions) to Haddami’s analysis. He and the baron went through its contents with a fine-tooth comb during their sojourn at Morgai, looking for any clues for entry into Lórien, but have found nothing useful. Now Haladdin wanted, for reasons unclear to himself, to have the Elf’s psychological portrait.

The results surprised him beyond belief. From the fine curlicues of runes, Haddami weaved a portrait of an exceptionally noble and likeable person, perhaps too dreamy, and open to the point of vulnerability. To Haladdin’s objections the graphologist insisted that his analysis of Eloar’s other notes on topography and logistics only confirmed his conclusions; there was no mistake.

Finally, Haladdin lost his patience. “If so, your entire method isn’t worth a damn!” he stated, and then described to the startled expert what he had seen in Teshgol, sparing him no grisly detail.

“Listen, doctor,” somewhat haggard Haddami said after a pause, “I still insist – it wasn’t him there, in that Teshgol of yours…” “What do you mean, it wasn’t him?! Perhaps he personally hadn’t raped an eight-year-old girl before slitting her throat, but he commanded the people who did!”

“No, no, Haladdin, that’s not at all what I mean! See, this is a deep, unimaginably deep (for us humans) split of personality. Imagine for a moment that you had to participate in something like Teshgol – just had to. You have a mother whom you love dearly; with the Elves, it can’t be otherwise, since children are very few and every member of society is truly invaluable. I suspect that you’d do everything possible to keep any knowledge of this nightmare from her, and knowing the Elves’ perceptiveness, simple lying or even withholding information would not be enough. This would require you to really turn into another person. Two totally different personalities in one creature – for internal and external consumption, so to speak. Do you understand me?”

“To be honest, not really. Split personalities are not my field of expertise.”

Strangely, apparently it was this conversation that pointed Haladdin towards the solution to the main problem he has been working on, and this solution shocked him with its primitiveness. It had been lying right there, on the surface, and now it seemed to him that he had been deliberately looking away, pretending not to see it. That evening the doctor got back to the tower to which they have been assigned late at night; the hosts were already in bed, but the fire was still burning in the hearth, and he sat there motionless, staring fixedly at the orange embers. He did not even notice when the baron appeared by his side.

“Listen, Haladdin, you look upset. Want a drink?”

“Yes… I suppose I do.”

The local vodka burned his mouth and rolled along his spine like a spasm; he wiped his eyes and looked for a place to spit. The drink did not make him feel better, but did add a measure of detachment. Tangorn disappeared into the dark and returned with another stool.

“More?”

“No, thank you.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes. I’ve figured out how to plant our little gift on the Elves.”

“So?”

“So now I’m pondering the eternal question of whether the ends justify the means.”

“Hmm… can be either way, depending on the circumstances.”

“Precisely. A mathematician would say that stated generally, the problem lacks a solution. Therefore, instead of a clear directive the One in His infinite wisdom had decided to supply us with conscience, which is a rather delicate and unreliable device.” “So what does your conscience say now, Doctor?” Tangorn looked at him with faintly mocking interest.

“Conscience says clearly: no. Duty says, equally clearly: you must. So it goes… It must be nice to live by the knightly ethic: do what you must and let the chips fall where they may, right, Baron? Especially when someone had already let you know what you must do…”

“I’m afraid that no one can help you make this choice.”

“Nor do I need any help. What’s more,” he turned away and, shivering, stretched his hands towards the cooling embers, “I would like to free you from any obligation to participate in our mission. Believe me, even if we win with my plan, it will not be a victory to be proud of.”

“Really?” Tangorn’s face went hard, and his gaze suddenly weighed like an avalanche. “So your plan is of such a quality that to take part in it is a greater dishonor than abandoning a friend in need – and so far I have considered you to be one? Doctor, I greatly appreciate your concern for my conscience, but perhaps you’ll allow me to make this judgment myself?”

“As you wish,” Haladdin shrugged indifferently. “You can listen first and decline later. It’s a fairly complicated scheme and we’ll have to start from afar… What do you think is Aragorn’s relationship with the Elves?”

“Aragorn and the Elves? You mean now, after they’ve put him on the throne of Gondor?”

“Of course. I think you have mentioned knowing Eastern mythology pretty well; perhaps you remember the tale of the Dwarves’ Chain?”

“I have to confess to forgetting it.”

“Well, it’s a very edifying story. A long, long time ago the gods were trying to subdue Hahti, the hungry demon of Hell, who could’ve consumed the whole world. Twice they restrained him with a chain forged by the divine Blacksmith – first of steel, then of mithril – and both times Hahti tore it like a thread. So when the gods were down to their third and final attempt, they had to abase themselves by turning to the Dwarves for help. Those came through with a chain made from fishes’ voice and the sound of cat’s footfalls…”

“Fishes’ voice and the sound of cat’s footfalls?”

“Yes. That’s why neither of those are found in the world – all used up in that chain. Actually, it seems to me that some other things got used up as well, such as gratitude of kings. Speaking of which, how do you think the gods paid the Dwarves?”

“By liquidating them, I suppose; how else?”

“Exactly! Actually, they only intended to liquidate them, but the Dwarves were to be reckoned with, too… but that’s a different story. Back to Aragorn and the Elves…” His tale was long and detailed, as he was also testing his logic. Afterwards, a silence fell, disturbed only by the howling wind outside the tower.

“You’re a scary man, Haladdin; who would’ve thought?..” Tangorn said thoughtfully, looking at the doctor with a new interest and – yes, respect. “The job we have undertaken brooks no timidity, but if we are, indeed, to win in this manner… In other words, I doubt that I will ever want to reminisce about it with you over a cup of wine.”

“If we are to win in this manner,” Haladdin echoed, “I don’t think that I will ever want to look at myself in a mirror.” (In any event, he added to himself, I will never dare look Sonya in the eye.)

“Actually,” the baron smirked, “allow me to take you back to earth: this discussion rather resembles dividing spoils before the battle. First you win this fight, then do your soul- searching. So far we see a light at the end of the tunnel, nothing more. I don’t think that our chances of survival are any better than one in five, so it’s an honest game, in a way.”

“Our chances? So you’re staying?”

“What else can I do? Why, do you think that you can do this without me? For example, how did you plan to approach Faramir? Your whole scheme will end before it begins without his participation, albeit passive. All right… Here’s what I think: this lure of yours has to be dropped nowhere else but Umbar. I will undertake that part of the operation, you and Tzerlag will only burden me there. Let’s go to sleep now; I will consider the details tomorrow.”

However, the next day they had another task: the long-awaited guide finally turned up, and off they went to conquer Hotont. It was the second week of May, but the pass still hadn’t opened up. The company was thrice hit by blizzards, and only the sleeping bags made from thickhorn skins saved them; once, after spending a day and a half in an igloo that Matun fashioned from quickly cut bricks of thick firn, they barely managed to dig themselves out. In Haladdin’s memory the whole trek was one thick, glutinous nightmare. Oxygen deprivation had weaved a curtain of tiny crystal bells all around him – after every move all he wanted to do was to sink down in the snow and listen blissfully to their hypnotic tinkling. It is not said for naught that freezing to death is the best way to go. The only time he broke out of that half-dream was when a huge furry figure appeared from nowhere on another side of a gorge about half a mile from where they were – a cross between an ape and a rearing bear. The creature moved awkwardly but preternaturally fast, disappearing amidst the boulders at the bottom of the gorge without paying any attention to them. That was the only time he had ever seen a scared Troll, something he thought impossible. “Matun, what was that?” The guide only waved a hand, as if warding against the Enemy: it’s gone, and that’s good enough… So now they are walking a nice path amongst the oaks of Ithilien, enjoying the birdsongs, while Matun is going back, alone, through all those screes and firn fields.

…That same evening they reached a clearing where a dozen men were putting up a stockade around a couple of unfinished houses. Seeing them, they all grabbed their bows and the leader told them in a serious voice to put down their arms and approach slowly with hands up. Tangorn approached and informed them that their company was heading to Prince Faramir himself. The men shared glances and inquired whether the newcomer was from the Moon or an insane asylum. The baron looked closer at one of the builders, who was sitting at the top of a house astride a roof beam, and laughed heartily:

“Well, well, Sergeant! Nice welcome you have for your commanding officer!”

“Guys!!” yelled the man, almost tumbling off his perch. “May my eyes never see if it ain’t Lieutenant Tangorn! Sorry, sir, we didn’t recognize you; you look, you know… Hey, now we’re all back together, so we’ll do that White Company like…” and, elated, he aimed an expressive obscene gesture towards Emyn Arnen.

Chapter 25

Ithilien, Blackbird Hamlet

May 14, 3019

“…So you just announced it to the entire Emyn Arnen: ‘merry men from the Blackbird Hamlet?’”

“What else could I do – wait for the Eternal Fire to freeze? Both the Prince and the girl can only leave the fort with a White Company bodyguard, can’t exactly talk with those guys present…”

The wick of an oil lamp on the edge of a rough wooden table cast fitful light on the speaker’s face. It was swarthy and predatory, like that of a mashtang bandit from the caravan trails south of Anduin; no wonder that its owner used to be equally comfortable in Khand caravanserais among bactrian drivers, smugglers, and lice-infested loudmouth dervishes, and in Umbar port dives of rather ill repute. It was Baron Grager many years ago who taught the newbie Tangorn in his first foray beyond the Anduin both the basics of intelligence work and, perhaps more importantly, the many Southern peculiarities without knowing which one will always remain a greengo, a permanent target of digs large and small from every Southerner, from a street boy to a palace courtier.

The master of Blackbird Hamlet reached questioningly towards the jug of wine, caught Tangorn’s barely discernible ‘no’ gesture and obligingly moved it aside. The emotional encounter of two old friends was over; they were at work now.

“How quickly did you get in touch?”

“Nine days. The Whites ought to have forgotten that stupid episode already. The girl went hunting once – it’s routine now – saw a shepherd boy with his flock on a distant pasture and lost her escort, very professionally, for not more than ten minutes.”

“A shepherd boy, eh? Did she give him a gold coin wrapped in a note?”

“Nope – took a splinter out of his foot and told him a story of how she and her brother, when they were kids, had to defend a herd against steppe wolves… Listen, is it true that they do everything themselves in the North?”

“Yes. Over there even crown princes tend horses in childhood, and princesses work in the kitchens. So what about the boy?”

“She simply asked him to help in such a way that no one else finds out. And – the word of a professional – were anything to happen, the boy would let himself be cut to ribbons before giving anything away… Anyway, he found Blackbird Hamlet and brought an oral message: next Friday Captain Beregond will be in the Red Deer tavern in the Settlement, waiting for a drunk man who will slap his shoulder and ask whether he is the one who commanded the archers of Morthond on the Pelennor Field.”

“What?! Beregond?”

“Yes, if you can imagine that. We were no less surprised, believe me. You have to agree, though, that Aragorn’s people aren’t likely to bait a trap with someone so noticeable, so the Prince is doing everything right.”

“You must all be crazy here!” Tangorn spread his hands. “How can you trust a man who first killed his suzerain and is now betraying his new lords, in less than a month?”

“Quite the contrary. First, he’s innocent of Denethor’s death, we know that for sure…”

“For sure? How? You looked into chicken entrails?”

“Yes, we did, but into a palantír rather than anyone’s entrails. Long story short – Faramir fully trusts him now, and the Prince, as you know, is a good judge of people and not given to sentimentality.”

Tangorn leaned forward and even whistled in amazement. “Wait! Do you mean to say that Denethor’s palantír is in Emyn Arnen?”

“Yep. Those folks in Minas Tirith have decided that it’s broken. All they could see in it was the murdered King’s ghost, so when Faramir asked for it as a memento, they were only too glad to get rid of it.”

“All right…”

The baron stole an involuntary glance at the door to the next room, where Haladdin and Tzerlag were bedding down for the night. The situation was changing rapidly; they were inordinately lucky recently, he thought fleetingly, not a good sign… Grager followed his glance and nodded in the same direction:

“Those two. Are they really looking for Faramir?”

“Yes. They can be trusted, since our interests are fully aligned, at least for now.”

“Well, well… A diplomatic mission?” “Something like that. Forgive me, but I’m honor-bound…”

The chief of the Ithilienians contemplated this for some time, and then grumbled: “All right. You deal with them yourself, I’m busy enough as it is. I’m gonna take them out from underfoot to the most remote base, at Otter Creek, for the time being, and then we’ll see.”

“By the way, why did you give away precisely this base, at Blackbird Hamlet?”

“Because you can’t approach it stealthily, so we can always beat it. Besides, we have only a few guys here; it’s more of an observation post than a base.”

“How many people do we have?”

“You’re number fifty-two.”

“And they?..”

“Forty.”

“Can’t storm the fort, then.”

“Forget a direct assault,” Grager waved off the notion. “Whatever else, they’ll anyway have enough time to kill the Prince. Moreover, Faramir demands that his freedom be attained with no bloodshed, so that no one can later accuse him of violating his vassal’s oath. No, we have another plan – an escape from Emyn Arnen; and when the Prince of Ithilien is under our protection, that’s when we can change our tune and advise the Whites to get lost.”

“So – do you have a concrete plan?”

“Brother, you offend me – it’s almost fully implemented already! You see, Éowyn was our biggest problem: they’re only let outside separately, and the Prince won’t go anywhere without her, of course. So we had to solve this puzzle: where can we arrange for both the Prince and the Princess to be, first, alone, second, with no eyes on them, third, outside the fort?”

“Hmm… the bedchamber comes to mind immediately, if not for the third condition.”

“You’re almost right. It’s the bathhouse.”

“Wow!” Tangorn laughed. “A tunnel?”

“Sure. The bathhouse is within the stockade, but away from the main building. We’re digging from a nearby mill, about two hundred yards straight, quite a bit of work. The biggest problem with tunnels, as you know, is what to do with all the dirt. With the mill we’re getting it out in sacks dusted with flour, it’s all very natural-looking. The danger is that the sentries might start counting the sacks from sheer boredom, and figure out that a lot more are going out than are coming in. So we couldn’t dig full-bore, but looks like we’ll be done this week.” “And the White Company has no suspicions?”

“Beregond swears that they don’t. Of course, they don’t tell him anything of the sort, but he’d see some signs of an alarm.”

“Do they have informants in the Settlement and the hamlets?”

“In the Settlement for sure, but not in the hamlets, I don’t think. See, the White Company has a real communication problem outside the fort. The locals avoid talking to them (there’re all sorts of crazy rumors about them, including that they’re the living dead), which helps us a lot: every settler contact with the Whites stands out. They’ve wised up now and switched to dead drops, but before that they were giving away their agents every day.”

“Is the innkeeper working for them?”

“Looks that way. Makes our lives very difficult.”

“What about the merchants who travel to Gondor?”

“One. The other is my man. I’ve waited for them to try and recruit him, then we’d have their communication channel, but no luck so far.”

“You’re just watching them for now?”

“Not just watching. Now that we’re counting down the days, I’ve decided to cut their link to Minas Tirith – make them get a little busy. That’ll distract them both from the miller and our hamlets.”

“Speaking of a link – anyone in the Settlement keep pigeons?”

Grager grinned. “One did, but his coop burned down. So it goes…”

“Wasn’t that too bold? They must’ve been furious.”

“Sure they were! But, like I told you, it’s the final countdown, speed matters. Besides, two sergeants investigated the arson, if you can imagine that, so now we know who’s in charge of counter-intelligence there… The only thing is,” the former resident spy said thoughtfully, keeping his gaze on the lamp, “I’m really bothered by how easily I’m figuring out everything they do. Just put myself in their place: how would I build a network in such a village? But this simply means that once they find out that we exist – which they will, and soon – they’ll figure my moves out equally easily. So what we must do is move first… Aha!” His raised finger froze in mid-air. “Sounds like company! Looks like the boys from the fort have finally risked direct contact with Minas Tirith – I’ve been waiting for this for three days!”

…The cart rolled down the highway in quickly gathering dusk, and its driver (the owner of the local grocery) kept getting chills behind the collar and in his sleeves. He had almost made it through the Owl Hollow – the most dismal stretch of the route between the Settlement and Osgiliath – when four shadows materialized noiselessly out of the dark chestnut bushes on both sides of the road. The merchant knew the rules well and surrendered his purse with its dozen silver coins meant to purchase soap and spices to the robbers without complaint. However, the robbers didn’t evince much interest in the money, telling the prisoner to disrobe; this was against the rules, but the blade against his throat discouraged any discussion. The grocer was really scared – cold-sweat scared – only when the leader, after poking his boot soles with a dagger, carefully felt his jacket, grunted in satisfaction and cut open one of the stitches. Then he deftly extracted a small square of fine silk, covered with runes barely visible in the dark.

The merchant was an amateur, so when the robbers threw a rope over a sturdy branch, he committed a gaffe of monumental proportions by claiming to be a King’s man. What did he expect to accomplish? The night assassins only traded puzzled looks: their experience suggested that the King’s men were just as mortal as all others, provided they were hanged properly. The one who was fashioning the noose observed drily that espionage was not a game of darts at the Red Deer, when only a couple of beers are at stake. Strictly speaking, he further observed while carefully tying a ‘pirate’s knot’ in full view of the victim, the merchant was lucky. A failed spy usually doesn’t rate such a quick and relatively painless death; it’s his good fortune that he’s only a courier and knows nothing about the rest of the organization… At that, the unfortunate grocer failed to hold either his bodily wastes or whatever he knew; as Grager’s men supposed, he knew quite a lot.

The ‘robbers’ traded satisfied glances: they have done their job flawlessly. The leader led a horse out from behind a bush, gave a couple of curt orders and galloped away: Blackbird Hamlet has been waiting for this bit of silk for a long time. One of the others gave the shaking prisoner a look that was far from admiring and pushed his discarded clothing towards him with his boot: “Over there, behind the trees, is a little stream. Go clean yourself up and get dressed – you’re coming with us. I’m sure you can imagine what’s gonna happen if your White Company buddies catch up with you.”

…The cipher used to encode the message was surprisingly simple. Upon discovering seven instances of a rare G rune in a short letter, Tangorn and Grager understood immediately that they were dealing with a so-called direct substitution, where one rune is always replaced with only one other throughout the text. Typically, a predetermined number is added to the number of all fifty-eight runes constituting the Kertar Daeron; for example, if the step is ten, Y (number 11) replaces X (number 1), A (number 7) replaces q (number 55), and so on. This cipher is so primitive that in the South it is used, at most, to encode secret love letters. Having figured out the step on the second try – fourteen, the date of the message – Grager cursed elaborately, reckoning it an attempt at disinformation.

The message was anything but disinformation, though. In it, one Cheetah, captain of His Majesty’s Secret Guard, was informing his ‘colleague Grager’ that their game had reached an impasse. Certainly Grager could roll up his intelligence network outside the fort and impede communications with Minas Tirith; however, this would not advance his ultimate goal even a little bit. Would it not make sense for the two of them to meet, either in Emyn Arnen (with safe conduct guarantees) or in one of the hamlets of the Baron’s choosing?

Chapter 26

Ithilien, Emyn Arnen

Night of May 14, 3019

“Listen, so you say that Princess Allandale didn’t really exist, that this Alrufin dreamed her up…” Éowyn was sitting in the armchair with her feet up, her slender fingers intertwined over her knees and a funny frown on her face. The prince smiled and, perching on the arm, tried and failed to smooth out the frown with his lips.

“No, Far, wait, I do mean it. She’s alive, you see – really alive! When she dies to save her friend, I want to cry, as if I had lost a friend for real… See, those sagas about ancient heroes are also great, but they’re different, very different. All those Gil-galads and Isildurs, they’re like… like stone statues, you understand? One can worship them, but that’s it, while the Princess – she’s weak, she’s warm, you can love her… Am I making sense?”

“Plenty, honey. I think that Alrufin would have loved to hear you say this.”

“Allandale must’ve lived in the beginning of the Third Age. No one but a few chroniclers even knows the names of the konungs who ruled Rohan back then; so who’s more real – they, or this girl? Hadn’t Alrufin – scary to say! – exceeded the might of the Valar?”

“Yes, in a way he has.”

“You know, I just thought… what if someone as mighty as Alrufin writes a book about the two of us – this can happen, right? Then which Éowyn will be the real one – I or the other?”

Faramir smiled. “I remember when you asked to explain, on a ‘stupid woman level’, what philosophy is. Well, your thoughts are just that – philosophy, albeit a tad naïve. You see, lots of people have thought about these things, and not all of the answers they’ve come up with are worthless stupidity. For example… Yes, come in!” he called out to a knock on the door, and glanced at Éowyn in puzzlement: it’s night already, who might want something?

The man who entered wore the black parade uniform of the Gondorian Guards of the Citadel (this had always intrigued the prince: White Company wearing black uniforms), and Faramir felt trepidation: they must have made some serious mistake. He told Éowyn to go into the next room, but the guest politely requested that she stay: what they will be discussing directly involves Her Highness.

“First, allow me to introduce myself, albeit a little late. I don’t have a name, but you can call me Cheetah. I’m a captain of the Secret Guard, rather than a sergeant – here’s my badge – and I’m in charge of counter-intelligence here. A few minutes ago I have arrested the Commandant of Emyn Arnen on charges of conspiracy and treason. However, it’s possible that Beregond had merely followed your orders without thinking about them too much, which would lessen his guilt. This is what I would like to establish.”

“Could you please express yourself clearer, Captain?” Not a muscle twitched in Faramir’s face when he fearlessly met Cheetah’s gaze – empty and terrifying, like that of all White Company officers; whereas if one discounted the matter of the eyes, the captain’s face was quite likeable – manly and a little sad.

“Prince, it appears to me that you understand my responsibilities incorrectly. On the one hand, I must protect your life at all costs – I repeat, at all costs. Not because I like you, but because such are my King’s orders. Rumor will ascribe any misfortune that befalls you to His Majesty; why should he have to pay someone else’s bills? On the other hand, I must avert all attempts to persuade you to break your vassal’s oath. Imagine that a band of fools attacks the fort and ‘frees’ you in order to turn you into the banner of Restoration. Should even one of the King’s men die when that happens – and some will most certainly die – His Majesty would be unable to ignore such an event for all his wishing otherwise. The Royal Army will enter Ithilien, which will most likely plunge the Reunited Kingdom into a bloody civil war. So please consider my task here to be guarding you from possible folly.”

Strangely, something in Cheetah’s manner of speaking (the tone? No, more likely phrasing…) made Faramir feel that he was once again talking to Aragorn.

“I greatly appreciate your concern, Captain, but I fail to see what this has to do with Beregond’s arrest.”

“You see, some time ago at the Red Deer he met a tall slender man with a long scar on his left temple and one shoulder noticeably higher than the other. Perhaps you know who I mean? That’s a distinctive look.”

“Frankly, no, I can’t remember,” the prince smiled, trying to keep the smile open and straight. “Perhaps it’s easier to ask Beregond himself?”

“Oh, Beregond will have to answer a whole host of questions. However, Prince, your forgetfulness is truly surprising. I can understand that Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien regiment, may not remember all his soldiers, but the officers and sergeants? I repeat – this man has a distinctive look.”

“What does the Ithilien regiment have to do with this?”

“What do you mean: ‘what’? You see, after the war many of those who had fought in the ranks of that remarkable unit didn’t come home to Gondor. Especially remarkable is the total absence of returned officers and sergeants, about fifty in all. Some must have been killed in the war, but surely not all! Where do you think they all could’ve gone, Prince – perhaps here, to Ithilien?”

“Perhaps,” the prince shrugged. “But I have no idea.”

“Exactly, Prince, exactly – you have no idea! Please note that it’d be completely normal and natural for those people to come to Ithilien, where they had started their service and where their beloved Captain is now Prince; it’s no secret that you were truly beloved in that regiment. But somehow not one of them showed up in Emyn Arnen officially to introduce himself and ask to join your service. Surely you agree that this is beyond unnatural, but rather suspicious! It’s logical to suppose that the regiment is still a well-regulated fighting unit that has gone underground, and now these people are planning your ‘liberation’. I think we’ve already established what would happen then.”

“These thoughts of yours are very interesting, Captain, and have their own logic, but if those are the only proofs of Beregond’s guilt that you have…”

“Please, Prince,” Cheetah frowned, “we’re not at a jury trial! The thing that concerns me now is the real guilt of this amateur conspirator, rather than the legal niceties. Immediately a question arises: how could the Commandant, who had only served in Minas Tirith, contact Sergeant Runcorn, the free shaft who had spent the entire war in Ithilien’s forests? Someone must’ve introduced them, even if indirectly, and you’re the prime suspect, Prince… Now: did Beregond act on his own or did he, as seems more likely, carry out your orders?”

It’s over, Faramir realized. Why did they have to send Runcorn to make contact? He is indeed easy to identify from a description. Sergeants’ descriptions – these guys are really digging deep… The Red Deer, too, is apparently covered better than I thought. We lost completely, but the price we pay will be different: I will go on being an honored prisoner, while the Captain will die a tortuous death. The worst thing is that I really can do nothing for him; I have to abandon Beregond to his fate and live with the knowledge of this betrayal. It’s a stupid illusion that there can be any negotiations with the victorious enemy. One can gain nothing in such negotiations, either for himself or others; they’re always conducted under the principle of ‘what I have is mine and what’s yours is also mine.’ Which is why there’s a cast-in-stone rule of clandestine warfare: in all circumstances, either be silent or deny everything, including your own existence. Should I admit any role in these contacts, I will not save Beregond and only speed up the destruction of Grager and his men.

All of these thoughts went through the prince’s mind like a whirlwind, and then he raised his gaze to meet Cheetah’s and said firmly: “I have not the slightest idea of the Commandant’s contacts with the members of the Ithilien regiment, had those indeed taken place. You very well know that we have not exchanged more than a dozen words during this time; after all, this man killed my father.”

“In other words,” the counter-spy summed up drily, “you do not wish to spare your man the torture, if not death?”

He knew what he was risking, Faramir thought, and responded: “If, indeed, there is treason involved – of which you have not yet convinced me! – then Captain Beregond must be punished severely.” Then, choosing his words carefully, he finished: “As for myself, I am ready to swear by the thrones of the Valar that I have never considered breaking my word, nor will ever consider doing so: duties to the suzerain are indissoluble.”

“All right,” Cheetah drawled thoughtfully. “What about you, Éowyn? Are you ready to betray for the sake of your goal and toss your man to the wolves? Actually,” he sneered, “what am I saying here? So a mere officer, a commoner, will go to the rack; big deal for someone of royal blood, who in any event is safe!”

An ability to control her facial expressions was not one of Éowyn’s many fine qualities – she paled and looked helplessly at Faramir. Cheetah had zeroed in on the chink in their armor: the girl was physically incapable of pretending indifference when a friend was in danger. Faramir tried to warn her with his gaze, but it was too late.

“Now listen to me, both of you! I’m not interested in confessions – I’m a counter-spy, not a judge. All I need is information about the locations of the Ithilien regiment fighters. I do not intend to kill these people; I really am trying to avoid bloodshed. You’ll have to take my word for it, since you’ve lost and have no other options. I will get this information out of you, whatever it costs. Certainly no one can interrogate in the third degree the sister of the King of Rohan, but you can be sure that I will make her watch the torture of Beregond, whom you betrayed, from the beginning to the bitter end, by the silence of Mandos!”

In the meantime the prince was absent-mindedly playing with his quill atop an incomplete manuscript, as if not noticing that his left elbow had nudged an unfinished cup of wine to the very edge of the table. In another moment the cup will crash to the floor, Cheetah will involuntarily glance at it – then he’ll vault over the table and go for the counter-spy’s throat, and devil may care… Suddenly the door opened without a knock and a White Company lieutenant strode quickly into the room; two soldiers appeared in the gloom just beyond the threshold. Late again, Faramir thought with a sense of doom, but the lieutenant paid him no heed, instead whispering something apparently very surprising into Cheetah’s ear. “We’ll continue our conversation in ten minutes or so, Prince,” the captain said, heading to the door. The lock clanged, the sound of marching boots faded quickly into the distance, and quiet fell – a kind of uneasy, confused quiet, as though it realized its fleeting quality.

“What’re you looking for?” She was surprisingly calm, even serene.

“Anything that can serve as a weapon.”

“Yes, that’s good. Find anything for me?”

“See, baby, I got you into this and couldn’t save…”

“Nonsense, you did everything right, Far; it’s just that luck was on their side this time.”

“Shall we say goodbye?”

“Yes, let’s. Whatever happens, we’ve had this month… You know, it must be Valar envy: we had too much happiness.”

“Are you ready, darling?” Now, after those few seconds, he was a totally different man.

“Yes. What should I do?’

“Look carefully. The door opens inward, the doorposts are inside, too…”

Chapter 27

Meanwhile, Cheetah was leaning on the battlement over the gates, his gaze fixed on Grager’s hard hawk-like face, which he had previously known only from descriptions. The spot in front of the gate was lit with a dozen torches held aloft by riders in Ithilien regiment’s camouflage cloaks from the Baron’s entourage. The talks proceeded with great difficulty, or almost not at all; the ‘esteemed treating parties’ agreed on the need to avoid bloodshed and nothing else. With good reason, neither trusted the other worth a damn (“Suppose I simply capture you right now, Baron, thus solving all my problems?” “You’ll have to open the gates to do that, Captain. Go ahead – open them, and we’ll see whose archers are better…”); neither budged an inch from their preconditions. Grager demanded that the Ithilienians be let inside the fort to stand guard over Faramir. Cheetah wanted to know the locations of their forest strongholds (“Do you think I’m an idiot, Captain?” “Well, you’re the one suggesting that I voluntarily let armed enemies inside the fort.”) After about fifteen minutes of this back-and-forth they finally agreed that the White Company would request orders from Minas Tirith while the Ithilienians would let the courier through, and broke up the talks.

Someone else might have been fooled by this show, but not Cheetah. The moment he went up the wall and assessed the situation, he turned to the accompanying lieutenant and gave a quiet order: “Raise a quiet alarm. All available men to the courtyard. Everyone freeze and watch for an intruder; any minute now someone from the Ithilien regiment will scale the wall, most likely in the rear, under cover of all the talk-talk. Capture him alive – I will personally take apart whoever produces a corpse.”

He was absolutely correct but for a couple of small details. The infiltrator chose the front rather than the back wall. Soundlessly he tossed a tiny grapple on a length of weightless elvenrope over the shoddy stockade (less than a dozen yards from the group at the gates, where the dark pushed away by their torches seemed thickest by contrast), flew up like a spider on a strand, and then slid into the courtyard like a breath of night breeze right under the noses of sentries, who kept their attention and bows trained on Grager’s well-lit men and expected no such chutzpah. Another small detail that Cheetah got wrong was that the man who was now trying to free the prince (an impromptu attempt conceived less than an hour ago of hopelessness and desperation) was not of the Ithilien regiment, but of the Cirith Ungol Rangers.

It rates a mention that Sergeant Tzerlag’s unit identification had caused a greatly animated discussion at Blackbird Hamlet, both as to essence and as to appearances. “My friend, are you totally nuts?” was Grager’s first reaction to Tangorn’s sudden suggestion to use the ‘visiting Mordorian professional’ rather than an Ithilien Ranger to infiltrate Emyn Arnen. “An Orc is an Orc! To trust the Prince’s life to one… Sure, it’s nice that he knows the fort layout – from when they were stationed here, right? – and can pick locks. But dammit, Baron – to let an armed Mordorian into the Prince’s bedchamber with your own hands?” “I’m willing to trust my own life to these two guys,” Tangorn explained patiently. “I can’t tell you about their mission, but please believe me: it so happens that we’re fighting the same enemy on the same team, at least for now, and they’re as interested as we are in getting Faramir out from under the White Company.”

Be that as it may, working in intelligence had long ago taught Grager that a temporary alignment of interest can sometimes produce a totally unbelievable alliance and that oftentimes one can trust a former enemy more than certain friends. In the end he assumed all responsibility, formally enlisted Tzerlag into the Ithilien regiment ‘for the duration of the raid on Emyn Arnen’ and handed the Orocuen the appropriate paperwork in case he got caught by the Whites. The sergeant only snorted – a captured Orc will get short shrift in any case; better to hang as a Mordorian insurgent than a Gondorian conspirator – but Haladdin told him to mind his own business.

“…And remember, Sergeant: no killing when taking down sentries and such! Treat this as a war game.”

“Very nice! Do those guys understand it’s a war game?”

“I hope so.”

“All right. I guess they’ll hang me with a pretend rope…”

They say that there are werewolves-nin’yokve in the countries of the Far East – a fearsome clan of super-spies and super-assassins capable of mutating into animals internally, while keeping their human appearance. Turning into a gecko, a nin’yokve can climb a smooth wall against all laws of physics, slither into any crack after turning into a snake, and should the guards catch up with him, he turns into a bat and flies away. Tzerlag had never had any nin’yokve skills (despite Tangorn’s possible suspicions), but the leader of a scouting platoon of the Cirith Ungol Rangers knew quite a few tricks involving no magic.

In any event, by the time the White Company soldiers have been roused and took their positions in the courtyard, he had already scaled one of the outside galleries and was now working on its lock, trading the grapple for other tools. The Sergeant did not have the skills of a real burglar, but he did know a few things about metalworking, and as he remembered from last year, any lock in Emyn Arnen could be opened with a pocketknife and a couple of pieces of wire. A few minutes later he was gliding noiselessly through the dark and empty corridors (all the Whites are outside – very convenient!); the Orocuen had admirable visual memory and spatial orientation skills, but he saw that finding the Prince’s bedchamber in this three-dimensional maze was not going to be easy.

…Freezing before every corner, zooming through open spaces like a lightning, climbing stairs sideways lest a step creak, Tzerlag had covered about a third of the way when his inner sentry, which was the only reason he had survived those years, moved its icy hand along his spine: beware! He immediately flattened against the wall and slowly moved sideways toward the turn about a dozen yards ahead. He could see no one behind, but the feeling of danger was still close and very clear; when the sergeant had made past the helpful turn, he was sweating thoroughly. He crouched and carefully extended a pocket mirror past the corner, almost at floor level – the corridor was still empty. He waited for a few minutes with no changes, and then he felt clearly: the danger receded, he could not feel it any more. This did not calm him at all; he moved forward even more cautiously and ready for the worst.

…When Cheetah caught a fast-moving shadow in the corner of his eye, he plastered himself against the wall in exactly the same manner and cursed inwardly: they missed the intruder after all, the bastards! The captain’s position was not that great: only three sentries to cover the entire huge building – one guarding Faramir and Éowyn, another by Beregond, the third at the entrance to the cellar. Go get help from outside? The intruder might let the prince out in the meantime, and the two of them will screw things up thoroughly. Sound an alarm? No good: the intruder will vanish into this damned maze and get ready for battle, so the only way to take him would be with quite a few holes in him, which is highly undesirable. Yes, looks like the only real option is to follow the guest and take him down personally, hand-to- hand, something Cheetah knew very well indeed.

Once he made the decision, Cheetah suddenly felt the rush of long-forgotten joyous excitement, for what is more exquisite fun than hunting an armed man? He froze in amazement, listening to himself: yes, there was no doubt – he was feeling an emotion! So this process has a certain order to it, then. He had his memory back first (although he still could not remember what happened to him before he found himself in the second rank of the gray phalanx marching across the Field of Pelennor), then he regained the ability to make his own decisions, then he could once again feel pain and weariness, and now the emotions were back. I wonder if I will be able to feel fear, too? At this rate I might become human again, he chuckled to himself. All right, I have work to do.

Naturally, he did not go into the corridor the intruder had taken; quite possibly he had seen him, too, and was now waiting behind the next corner. Much better to make use of being the master here and being able to move much faster than the foe: no need to freeze and listen by every turn. I can go around and still be there first. Where’s there? If the unwelcome guest is moving towards Faramir’s room (where else?), then I should meet him at the Two Stairs Landing – he can’t avoid it, and I will have at least three minutes to prepare.

As he expected, the counter-intelligence chief was the first at the landing; he took off his cloak and started painstakingly setting up the trap. I must morph into my quarry; so – if he’s not a leftie, he will be moving along the left wall. Would I look at the spiral staircase that will suddenly appear on the right? Yes, definitely. Then I will be with my back to this niche? Precisely. What a beautiful niche – even up close it’s hard to believe that it can hold anything bigger than a broom. Here, let’s extinguish this lamp, so it’s more in the shadow… wonderful, all set, that’s where I’ll stand. Now: I’m here, he’s there, two yards off and facing away. Sword hilt to the back of the head? Damn, don’t feel like it… not sure why, but intuition says no, gotta listen to intuition in this business. Hands, then – a chokehold? Right hand grabs the hair at the nape, pull down to raise the chin, a simultaneous kick to the knee, left arm to the exposed throat. Reliable, but possibly lethal, and corpses don’t talk much. Hadaka-jime, then, but for that it’s preferable that he expose his throat himself – say, by looking up. How can we make him look up? Think, Cheetah, think…

…When Tzerlag reached the dim weirdly shaped widening of the corridor at the end of which he could discern stairs going left, the premonition of danger returned with such force that he almost became dizzy: the unknown foe was somewhere very close. He watched and listened for minute – nothing; moved forward slowly, in small steps, noiselessly (damn, maybe to hell with their orders, get out the scimitar?) and froze: a large opening appeared on the right, with a spiral staircase through it, and there was definitely something behind those stairs. He glided by the left wall, his eyes on the opening – who the hell’s there? – and stopped, almost laughing out loud. Whew! It’s just a sword, leaned against the wall behind the stairs by one of the Whites. A strange place to keep a personal weapon, though. Maybe it’s not leaned, actually – judging by the angle, it might’ve slipped down from upstairs. By the way, what’s that there on the top step?..

Tzerlag’s inner sentry yelled: behind you! only a split second before the foe’s hands locked around his neck. The sergeant only had time to flex his neck muscles. Moving precisely, like in training, Cheetah grabbed his throat with the crook of the right arm, then the counter- spy’s right hand locked on his left bicep, while the left pushed against the back of his neck, crushing throat cartilage and pinching the arteries. Hadaka-jime – unbreakable stranglehold. Game over.

Chapter 28

Banal though it sounds, everything has its price. The price of a warrior is the amount of time and money (which are really the same thing) it takes to train, arm, and equip another one to replace him. In every epoch it is useless to increase the level of training beyond a certain threshold where a basic competency is achieved, since total imperviousness is anyway impossible. What good does it do to spend the effort to turn a regular infantryman into a first-class fencer when this will not save him from a crossbow bolt or, worse, a bout of wasting diarrhea?

For example, take hand-to-hand combat. It is a very useful skill, but perfection takes years of constant training, whereas a soldier, to put it mildly, has plenty of other responsibilities. There are several options here; the Mordorian army approach was to teach only about a dozen techniques, but to teach those twelve combinations of movements almost down to the level of the kneejerk reflex. Of course, it is impossible to foresee all eventualities, but the method for breaking a rear stranglehold is definitely among the said dozen techniques.

Step one! – a swift move back; stomp heel into the top of the foe’s foot, crushing its bird- thin bones encased in myriads of nerve endings. Step two! – bend the knees slightly, small turn of thighs, slide out of the grip suddenly weakened by horrible pain, down and slightly to the right, until there is room to drive the left elbow into his groin. Once the foe’s hands drop to his hammered genitals, there are a few options available; for example, Tzerlag’s step- three training had been to smash open palms over the opponent’s ears: burst eardrums and a guaranteed knock-out. This ain’t no exquisite ballet of the far-eastern martial arts, where the hieroglyphs of each position are but notation marks for the music of the Higher Spheres; this is Mordorian hand-to-hand combat, where everything is simple and to the point.

First he kneeled and pulled up the eyelid of the spirited White Company sergeant (good, the pupil is reacting, Grager’s order had not been violated), and only then allowed himself to lean against the wall in momentary exhaustion. Squeezing eyes shut, he forced himself to swallow against the pain: thank the One, the throat is intact. What if the guy had a garrote? It’d’ve been the end for sure. How did I screw up so badly? More importantly, how did he figure me out? Wait, this means that they’ll be waiting for me at Faramir’s door, too…

…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?”

“What 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!”

The hall filled with ringing of blades and fierce yells (the fight was now such that it became clear – soon there would be first dead). That was when a voice sounded from somewhere on the north stair – seemingly quiet, but somehow penetrating the minds of all the combatants: “Stop, all of you! Faramir, please listen to me!” There was something in that voice that froze the fight for a few moments, so that Cheetah (in someone else’s cloak, leaning on something like a crutch with his left hand and on a White sergeant’s shoulder with his right) managed to reach the middle of the hall. He stopped amid the frozen tableau and his voice sounded a command: “Go, Faramir! Quick!” A small shiny object tossed by his hand bounced off Tzerlag’s chest, and the amazed sergeant picked up a fancy double-headed Umbarian key.

The freeze thawed immediately. At the Orocuen’s command Faramir and Éowyn moved back towards the door, he himself disappeared into the cellar again, and Sir Elvard, who had finally understood what just happened, cried out: “Treason! They’ll escape through the tunnel!” The lieutenant thought for a couple of seconds, arrived at a final decision, pointed at the prince with his sword and shouted: “Kill him!” Things got serious in a hurry. It immediately became obvious that Éowyn, at least, would not be able to hold out for more than a couple of minutes: the girl fenced perhaps even better than the prince, but the captured Dúnadan blade was too heavy to suit her well. They had each sustained a glancing wound (he to the right side, she to the left shoulder) when they finally heard: “It’s open, Prince! Retreat one by one between the barrels! I have the sack!”

A few seconds later the prince followed Éowyn into the cellar. Right at the threshold he managed to strike a good blow at the attacking Dúnadan, broke contact and quickly backed into the darkness, right into a narrow aisle between empty barrels stacked three high. “Faster, faster!” Tzerlag’s voice sounded from somewhere above him. The Whites were already in the door, their silhouettes clearly visible against the lit doorway, when there was a wooden rumble resembling an avalanche, and then it was dark – not a ray of light penetrated from the door. Faramir halted in confusion, but then the Orocuen materialized from somewhere by his side, grabbed his arm and pulled him further into the dark. The prince’s shoulders bumped the walls of the passage, Dúnedain yells and curses filtered from behind, and Éowyn was calling to them in alarm from up ahead. “What happened, Tzerlag?” “Nothing much: I simply rocked the top barrels and brought them down to block the passage. Now we have at least a minute breathing room.”

The girl was awaiting them at a small, unusually thick door leading into a narrow and low (about five feet high) tunnel. It was so dark that even the Orocuen could not see much.

“Éowyn, in there, now! Take the palantír! Faramir, help me… where the hell is it?”

“What’re you looking for?”

“A beam. A small beam, about six feet; Grager’s men were supposed to leave it on the other side… Aha, here it is! Did you close the door, Prince? Now we secure it from the outside with this beam… Come over, let’s fit the other end in this hole here. Praise the One, it’s an earthen floor, this will hold well.”

A few seconds later the door shuddered under blows from the inside; they were just in time.

Upstairs in Emyn Arnen a major spat was in progress. Sir Edvard, pale with anger, screamed at the chief of counter-intelligence:

“You’re under arrest, Cheetah, or whatever your name is! Know this, bastard: up North we hang traitors by their legs, so that they have time to think before dying!..”

“Shut up, idiot, it’s bad enough already,” the captain answered tiredly. He was sitting on a step, eyes closed, waiting patiently while another man fashioned a crude cast for his foot. A grimace of pain contorted his face from time to time: a broken foot is a truly horrendous injury.

“Anyway, you’re under arrest,” the Dúnadan repeated; then he glanced up at the Secret Guard officers arrayed in a semicircle behind their chief and felt a sudden fear – not that he scared easily. The seven figures froze in a strange immobility, and their eyes – usually dark and empty, like a dry well – suddenly shone with a scarlet shimmer, like a predator’s.

“No, don’t even think about it,” Cheetah said, turning to his people, and the scarlet shimmer disappeared without a trace. “Let him consider me arrested, if that will make him feel better; a fight among the White Company is just what we don’t need right now…”

Suddenly a din rose in the courtyard, then the door opened, and in walked the man whom they least expected to see, flanked by stunned sentries.

“Grager!” Sir Elvard said in astonishment. “How dare you come here? Nobody gave you safe conduct…”

The baron smirked. “It’s you who’s going to need safe conduct now. I am here by the order of my suzerain, the Prince of Ithilien,” he stressed the last words. “His Highness is prepared to forgive all the evil you’ve done him and were about to do. Moreover, the Prince has a plan that will allow His Majesty to save face and you to keep your heads attached.”

Chapter 30

Ithilien, the Settlement

May 15, 3019

The morning that day was wonderful. The watercolor blue of the Ephel Dúath (what idiot had decided to cal then Mountains of Shadow?) was so transparent that their snowy peaks appeared to float in the air above the boundless emerald stretches of Ithilien. For those few minutes the fort of Emyn Arnen on a nearby hill became what its creators must have imagined it to be: a magical forest dwelling, rather than a fortress. The rays of the rising sun have magically transformed the meadow on the edge of the Settlement – the plentiful dew that had previously covered it like a coat of noble faded silver suddenly shone like a spread of uncountable diamonds; perhaps the early May sunrise had surprised the gnomes who had gathered here for their nightly vigil, so now they have fled to their mouse holes, abandoning their painstakingly arranged treasures.

Be that as it may, the three or four hundred people gathered at the meadow (mostly peasants and soldiers) were not inclined to think of the dew poetically: it had drenched them all, many teeth were close to chattering. Nevertheless, no one left; on the contrary, people kept gathering. Men from the distant hamlets joined the inhabitants of the Settlement; news that the White Company was leaving, changing the guard to the newly reconstituted Ithilien regiment, have traveled with lighting speed, and no one wanted to miss the show. Now they were looking at the two motionless ranks facing each other – one black, the other green – at the officers saluting each other with complex movements of bare swords – “I relieve you.” “I stand relieved.” – and, amazingly, for the first time thought of themselves as Ithilienians rather than settlers from Gondor, Arnor, or Belfalas.

The Prince of Ithilien was a little pale and did not seem too comfortable in the saddle (according to experts in such things); then again, there was no lack of pale faces and beclouded gazes among the White Company, either. (“Guys, betcha the party in the fort last night was a monster, eh?” “Yeah, see them three Whites in the back row on the right? You could prob’ly get buzzed from their breath; they look ready to keel over, poor sods.”) In the meantime, Faramir thanked the White Company for faithful service, bid a ceremonious farewell to his personal guard, and addressed a speech to his subjects:

“Today we are seeing off our friends who have come to our aid in the hour of utmost need, when the fledgling Ithilien Colony was defenseless against the bands of bloodthirsty goblins and Wargs; our heartfelt thanks to you, Guards of the Citadel! (“Hey, cousin: bands o’ goblins… ever see any ‘round here?” “Well, cain’t say as I had, but they say that the other day at the Otter Creek…”) The memory of this aid will remain forever in our hearts, just as the Princedom of Ithilien will forever remain the vassal of the Reunited Kingdom and its shield beyond the Anduin. However, we will defend the Kingdom as we see fit; we dwell beyond the Great River, not in Anórien, so we have to live in peace and harmony with all the local peoples, whether anybody likes it or not. (“What’s he talking about, cousin?” “Well, I figger that, say, them Trolls in the Mountains of Shadow – word is they have iron like dirt, but not much lumber.” “Yeah, I suppose…”) Anyway. All hail the King of Gondor and Arnor! (“Weird, cousin…” “Hey, dumbass, see them roll out the barrels over yonder? For a free drink I’ll hail even His Majesty… Hurrah!”) …The messenger from Minas Tirith (a lieutenant of the Dúnadan Royal Guard) showed up at the meadow when the ceremony was in full swing, his horse all lathered and breathing hard. Sir Elvard, thoroughly cowed by the Secret Guard (“Oblige me by smiling, sir. Smile, you hear?!”), now helplessly watching this unheard-of treachery – surrender of a key fortress without a fight – looked up and a faint hope arose in his heart: His Majesty must have somehow learned about this rebellion and has sent him an order to polish off all those dyed-in-the-wool traitors – from Faramir to Cheetah… Alas, the message was indeed from Aragorn, but it was addressed to the captain of the Secret Guard. Cheetah broke the White Tree seal right then and there and lost himself in reading; then he folded the message unhurriedly and handed it to Sir Elvard with a strange chuckle:

“Read this, Lieutenant. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

The letter was a set of detailed instructions on how the White Company was to proceed under the new circumstances. Aragorn wrote that the preservation of the status quo required identifying all the bases of the Ithilien regiment and destroying them in one fell swoop, so that not a single man would escape. The strike was to be lightning-fast and absolutely secret; as for who was to be blamed for this monstrous evil deed – the mountain Trolls, goblins, or Morgoth himself – that was up to the captain. However, should there be any doubts whatsoever as to the success of such an operation (for example, if critical time was lost and there were already almost as many Ithilienians as the Whites), then it was to be aborted. In that case they were to make virtue out of necessity: transfer the duty of guarding Emyn Arnen to the officers of the Ithilien regiment in exchange for Faramir’s confirmation of his vassal’s oath and return to Minas Tirith, leaving only their intelligence network behind. His Majesty reminded that Faramir’s life was sacrosanct in any and all circumstances, and that anyone who would provoke an open confrontation between the Ithilienians and the White Company (which event would immediately cause a civil war in the princedom and tear apart the Reunited Kingdom) will be executed for treason. To put it succinctly: once you start the job, finish it, but don’t start if you’re not sure.

His Majesty wrote in a post-scriptum: “There are many sovereigns in this world who love cloaking their orders in hints in order to later blame those doing their will for ‘misunderstanding orders.’ Be it known that Elessar of Valandil is not one of them – he always accepts responsibility and calls things what they are, and his orders say only what they say. Should there be found among the White Company any officers who – motivated by excess zeal – would mistake explicit bans for a veiled desire of the King, Captain Cheetah is to neutralize any such officer at any cost.”

“As you can see, Lieutenant, by letting you live during your escapades last night, I was going against the King’s orders, to some extent.”

“So you’ve known about this order?” Sir Elvard looked at Cheetah with superstitious fear.

“You’re overestimating my abilities. It’s just that, unlike you, I can figure at least two moves in advance.” “…They’re leaving! Look, they’re really leaving!” Grager breathed finally, watching the column of Whites take to the Osgiliath Highway. He kept the fingers of his left hand crossed in a special way, just in case. “To be honest, I didn’t quite believe it and kept waiting for some treachery to the last moment… You’re a genius, Your Majesty!”

“That’s ‘Your Highness,’ Baron, and please keep in mind – I absolutely will not tolerate any joking in this matter.”

“My apologies, Your Highness.”

“However,” Faramir looked over the Ithilien regiment fighters gathered around him with a slight smile, “each one of you is hereby entitled to address me as ‘my Captain,’ for old times’ sake. Obviously, this will not be a hereditary privilege. All right, guys. Her Highness will show you to the castle – the food is served and the bottles are uncorked – while myself and the officers and… erm… our Eastern guests will catch up with you in ten minutes or so… So what were you wishfully saying there, Baron Grager: you really think that they’ve left?”

“No, my Captain. Their spy network…”

“Yes, exactly. What do you propose to do about it?”

“Nothing, Your Highness.”

“Explain.”

“Sure. It makes no sense to prosecute those of Cheetah’s people that we’ve identified: since Ithilien was and is a vassal of Gondor, they’ve committed no crime by working for the monarch of the Reunited Kingdom. Sometimes in such circumstance you do away with a spy quietly, but that’s an extreme measure: by doing so we’d announce to Minas Tirith that we’re at the very least openly hostile, if not at war with them. Most importantly, Prince, I’m almost certain that we have not identified the entire network. Should we arrest the ones we know, we’d allow them free use of any remaining agents. Whereas if we touch nobody, it’ll be impossible to figure out which ones we know about and which we don’t, so they’ll have to consider the entire network compromised. Even if they don’t simply abandon it, they’ll for sure put it to sleep for a long time. At least I wouldn’t touch such a semi-compromised network with a ten-foot pole.”

“Very well; this will be your call now, Baron Grager. I hereby promote you to Captain and grant you the requisite powers.”

“Wow!” Tangorn laughed. “I see that the setup of the state of Ithilien is proceeding in an unusual fashion – its first institution is the counter-intelligence service!..”

Faramir shrugged: “With neighbors such as these… In any event, I doubt that this is of much interest to our guests. Tzerlag, where are you?.. I have to admit to a certain difficulty: your exploits of last night definitely make you worthy of a knighthood, but that would create a host of technical problems. In any event, what use is Gondorian knighthood to a desert warrior?”

Tzerlag shook his head. “No use, Your Highness.”

“See? Well, I guess there’s no choice but to fall back onto the ancient legends: ask your heart’s desire, Sergeant! But please keep in mind that I don’t have daughters of marriageable age yet, and as for the Prince’s treasury… what do we have there, Beregond?”

“A hundred thirty six gold pieces, Your Highness.”

“Yeah, not quite the Hoard of Vendotenia… Perhaps you’d like to think about it, Sergeant? Oh, by the way, I have another debt to pay – for your rescue of this fair sir.”

The Orocuen was abashed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but we… how should I put it… we’re kinda together, so our request will be mutual. Better let Baron Tangorn tell you; consider that I gave my rights over to him.”

“Ah so?” The prince looked over the three comrades with gay amusement. “This just keeps getting more interesting. I suppose it’s a confidential request?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“…As I understand it, Baron, you’re going to ask for the palantír,” Faramir began after they rode about twenty paces away from the rest of the group. He was gloomy, with no trace of amusement remaining on his face.

“So you’ve guessed already, Prince?”

“I’m not a total fool; why else would you ask me to escape with it? I just couldn’t imagine that you’re working together with these guys. So now I’ll have to hand a magic crystal over to Mordorians. A nice bind you got me into, no question.”

“That is not so, Your Highness. Haladdin is not in Mordor’s service any more; he is acting by himself and on behalf of entire Middle Earth, if I may be so bold. The sad thing is that I don’t have the right to let you know what his mission is, therefore I ask you to trust my word.”

Faramir brushed it off: “That’s not what I’m talking about. You know that I’ve always trusted you; more than I trust myself, in some things. It’s just that – what if all three of you are someone else’s puppets and that someone is using you for his own gain? Try analyzing this situation once more, this time as a professional spy, rather than a friend of Haladdin and Tzerlag.”

“I’ve done so many times and have this to say: whoever had started this originally, Haladdin will only play his own game, and this guy is very, very resilient – take my word for it – even though he doesn’t look the part. And another thing – I really like him, and I will do what I can to help him win.” After some thought the prince grumbled: “All right. Let’s consider me persuaded. How can I help you three?”

“First, please accept my resignation,” the baron began, and explained to puzzled Faramir: “I will have to visit Umbar for some time, and I plan to operate there as a private person, so as not to put Your Highness in a false light…”

Chapter 31

Gondor, Minas Tirith

May 17, 3019

“Her Royal Majesty the Queen of Gondor and Arnor!” the master of ceremonies announced and immediately vanished into thin air, like he hadn’t been there at all. Palace servants everywhere seem to have a sixth sense in addition to formal training. Aragorn had nerves of steel (a necessity in his former profession) and concealed the true feelings that the expression ‘Her Majesty the Queen’ aroused in him perfectly well. Nevertheless, somehow the rascal seemed to feel that every time those words were uttered His Royal Majesty Elessar Elfstone had a fleeting desire to either turn the speaker over to the Secret Guard (the Valar spare us), or simply unsheathe the Andúril and split the offender in half.

Gods, how beautiful she was! No human language has words to describe her beauty, while Elves need no words. Actually, it was not her beauty as such, but her absolute star-like unattainability that was the leash which was used to guide him all these years, ever since he first got to the Enchanted Forest and met – by pure coincidence, of course – Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of Imladris, the daughter of Ruler Elrond himself. No one can find out now why the Elves picked him rather than any of the other innumerable Dúnedain princes (strictly speaking, almost every Dúnadan thinks himself a prince, tracing his lineage if not from Isildur, then for sure at least from Eärendur). Be that as it may, the Firstborn chose well: Aragorn performed his task with excellence.

Now he was looking at her with a feeling he had never had before: desperation. Any further struggle is useless; how long can he chase a mirage? Yes, time to sum up, and there’s no reason to lie to oneself. So: an obscure chief of northern rangers had won the greatest of all wars in the history of Middle Earth, ascended the throne of the Reunited Kingdom, and became the first among Western sovereigns – but none of that had brought him an inch closer to possessing this woman.

“What else do you want from me, Arwen?” He knew he was saying the wrong thing in the wrong way, but could do nothing about it. “I crushed Mordor and laid the crown of Gondor and Arnor at your feet; if that’s not enough, I will spread our borders beyond the Rune Sea and the mountains of Vendotenia. I will conquer Harad and the other countries of the Far East and make you Queen of the world – just give the word!”

“Don’t you want all that yourself?” “Not any more. Now I want only you… You know, it seems to me that I was closer to you back then, in Rivendell…”

“Please understand,” her face once again assumed an expression of weary compassion, like a teacher who has to explain a grammar rule to a dim student for the tenth time, “I may not belong to any man; don’t torture yourself for nothing. Recall the story of Prince Valacar and Princess Vidumavi; your own chronicles say: ‘For the high men of Gondor already looked askance at the Northmen among them; and it was a thing unheard of before that the heir to the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race.’ No wonder it sparked a civil war. Whereas compared with the nobility of my heritage there’s no difference even between Isildur and some black chieftain from Far Harad. But even that is not much compared to the real obstacle – our age difference. To me, you’re not even a boy, but a baby. Would you take a three-year-old to wife, even if she looked like an adult?”

“So that’s how it is…”

“Of course, and you’re even behaving like a spoiled child. Bored with the royal power in just a few days, you now want a new toy – Arwen, the Evenstar of Imladris! Think about it – you want to trade even love for a handful of candy: the crowns of Men’s kingdoms. After all those years of dealing with Elves, have you not understood that none of us wants power as such? Believe me, I see no difference between the crown of Gondor and this cup – both are just gem-studded pieces of silver.”

“Yes, looks like I’m just a baby. And you’ve tricked me, back then in Lórien, just like a baby.”

“You have tricked yourself,” she objected calmly. “Please remember how it happened.”

In a moment a silvery fog covered the walls of the palace hall, blurry silhouettes of Lórien mallorns showed through, and he heard again Elrond’s soft voice right next to him: “Perhaps my daughter will revive the rule of Men in Middle Earth, but no matter how much I love you, I will tell you this: Arwen Undomiel will not change the course of her fate for a small man. Only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become her husband…” The voice of the Ruler faded away, and Aragorn again saw Arwen before him – she had restored the hall to its former appearance with a casual wave of her hand.

“This was the precise statement, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It’s the honest truth: only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become the husband of an Elvish princess, but did anybody promise that he will actually become one?”

Aragorn smiled crookedly. “You’re right, as always. A baby such as myself could never think of such a thing – the Ruler of Rivendell trying to weasel out of his words! Well, he can find a loophole very well, better than any Umbar shyster.”

“You were paid for your work in honest coin – the Re-forged Sword and the throne of the Reunited Kingdom.”

“Yes, the throne I don’t control!” She frowned a little. “Don’t demean yourself. You knew from the very beginning that you’d get an Elvish advisor once you ascended the throne.”

“You mean a regent.”

“Again you exaggerate. Besides, we met you halfway: Lórien sent you not just anyone, but myself as the advisor, so that to your subjects it looks like a regular dynastic marriage. You, on the other hand, have imagined who knows what and now desire to add the daughter of the Ruler of Elves to your collection of sluts!”

“You know that this is not so.” There was nothing but weary submission in his voice now. “Back in Lórien, when you accepted Barahir’s ring from me…”

“Oh, that. Do you wish to remind me of the story of Beren and Lúthien? Understand already that this is a legend, and a human legend, at that – an Elf can only laugh at it.”

“Thank you for the explanation. To put it bluntly, you consider love between an Elf and a Man to be bestiality, right?”

“Let’s end this stupid conversation. You have rightly mentioned the need to adhere to one’s agreements. Don’t you think that a second ‘accident’ befalling a man from my entourage in as many weeks is a bit much?”

“Oh, so that’s what you wanted to discuss.”

“Precisely, my dear. If you have imagined that Lórien is incapable of protecting the people working for it, we will teach your Secret Guard a lesson they’ll remember forever – if there’s anyone left to remember.”

Resurgent anger helped him come back to his senses, like the stink of smelling salts helps a man out of a swoon; the hex dispelled, and the Dúnadan was becoming himself again – a white polar wolf facing a pack of jackals. “Allow me to remind you, my dear, that you’re not the masters here – not yet. Let’s call a spade a spade: had your ‘entourage’ been a real embassy, all of them would’ve been expelled long ago ‘for activities incompatible with diplomatic status.’”

“You know,” Arwen said thoughtfully, “sometimes you’re undone by excessive logic – it makes you predictable. You wouldn’t have resorted to such measures without a dire need; therefore, the dead men have sniffed out something top-secret and extremely important. Hence, all I need to do is determine what they were doing in their last days.”

“Any progress?”

“Oh yes, quite a lot! If one can call it progress. I’ll admit that we’ve tended to overlook your games with the dead; to be honest, no one believed that a mortal could master the Shadow Spell well enough to actually bring them back to life. But now you have decided to inherit the black knowledge of Mordor, too; you’re gathering those poisoned shards everywhere you can and expect to get away with it. There’s no denying that you’re a top- grade swashbuckler (that’s what we were choosing for among very many): highly intelligent, desperately brave, and totally merciless to others and himself. I know that you’re no novice at juggling live cobras, but believe me: you have never – by the Halls of Valinor! – never played a game as dangerous as this!”

“I’m also very practical. The thing is, those games are as dangerous to you Elves as to me; I’m glad that you’ve finally understood the danger. I am ready to undo it all if I’m properly paid.”

“Ah so? What is your price, then?”

“You already know the price, and there’ll be no other.”

Arwen walked away in silence, like a vertical ray of sun piercing a dusty room; when she looked back at his soft: “Wait!” it was a victory greater than Pelennor or Cormallen.

“Wait,” he repeated, then carelessly tossed up the silver cup she had just used to illustrate her invective, caught and crushed it in a single movement like it was made of paper; the encrusted rubies burst through his fingers like drops of blood and rattled across the marble floor. “By the Halls of Valinor,” he repeated her words slowly, “I, too, no longer see a difference between the crown of Gondor and this cup; sorry that the crown wasn’t to hand.”

He tossed her the lump of silver so that she had to catch it and left without looking back. It looked like for the first time ever a battle went to him. Yes, she’s right – he’s playing the most dangerous game of all and isn’t about to turn back. He wants this woman, and he will have her, whatever the cost. This will never happen while Elves are Elves? Very well, then the whole foundation of their power must be crushed. This is a task of unimaginable complexity, but a lot more fun than, say, the conquest of Harad…

The voice of the guard on duty abruptly brought him back to reality: “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! The White Company is back from Ithilien. Shall I ask them in?”

…Aragorn sat silently, head down and arms crossed over his chest; Cheetah sat in front of him in an armchair, bandaged foot awkwardly turned aside. He had finished his unhappy report a few minutes ago and was now awaiting the verdict.

Finally His Majesty raised his gaze. “Under those circumstances your actions have to be judged as appropriate, Captain. I would’ve done the same thing in your place. Well, that’s no surprise.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Our shadow is your shadow.”

“You seem to want to ask something?”

“Yes. While in Ithilien we were bound hand and foot by the order to preserve Faramir’s life. Don’t you think it necessary to revise…” “No, I don’t.” The Dúnadan rose and strolled around the room thoughtfully. “You see, I have lived a turbulent life and am guilty of a multitude of sins, including some mortal ones… but I have never been an oath-breaker, and never will be.”

“What relevance does this have to real politics?”

“A very direct one. Faramir is an honorable man, so while I keep up my side of the bargain, he won’t abandon his, and I’m fairly satisfied with the status quo.”

“But now all who are unhappy with Your Majesty’s rule will gather in Ithilien!”

“Certainly, and that’s wonderful! This will rid me of opposition in Gondor – with no bloodshed, mind you. It will be Faramir’s problem now to make sure that those guys don’t do anything about restoring the old dynasty – he’s oath-bound, too.”

“So it doesn’t concern you that the Prince of Ithilien has already started some sort of murky dealings with the East?”

“This wasn’t in your report! Where did you get this information?”

“You see, the man who broke my foot was an Orocuen scout; the same night an Umbarian physician – Haladdin, I remember his name well – set it. Those men came from beyond the Mountains of Shadow together with the well-known baron Tangorn…”

“Hey! Describe this doctor to me!” Cheetah looked at Aragorn in surprise; the King leaned forward and his voice cracked a bit.

“…Yes, it’s him, without a doubt,” the Dúnadan murmured and closed his eyes for a few seconds. “So Tangorn had found Haladdin in Mordor and dragged him over to Faramir in Ithilien… Damn but you’ve kept the worst news for last! Looks like I have seriously underestimated that philosopher.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, for not yet knowing – who is this Haladdin?”

“Ah. You see, you’re about to head a small top-secret group – Task Force Féanor; it is not even part of the Secret Guard and reports directly to me. Its strategic task for the foreseeable future is to gather knowledge left behind by Mordor and Isengard for our own purposes. You can’t make do with just the books in this business, you need the people, too. A certain Doctor Haladdin is number eighteen on our list. Of course, it could be a coincidence that he met Tangorn, Faramir’s Umbarian resident, but I don’t believe in such coincidences.”

“Then you think… that Faramir is doing the same thing?”

“Usually, clever thoughts occur to smart minds simultaneously; by the way, the Elves are engaged in the same kind of search, to other ends, of course. The thing is that Faramir will have a much easier time searching thanks to his old connections in the East. That list we have is based on pre-war reports of his resident spies – praise Manwe that we, rather than the Elves, got the Royal archives… In any case, Captain – find this Tangorn immediately and get everything he knows out of him; then consider how to get our hands on whatever Ithilien has. There’s no task of greater importance now.”

“An abduction right out of Emyn Arnen?” Cheetah shook his head dejectedly. “But that damned Grager has practically destroyed our network there, it can hardly handle such a task.”

“Tangorn won’t stay in Emyn Arnen. No doubt Faramir will send him to Umbar, where he had so much success before the war: it’s full of Mordorian émigrés now, plus it’s the best possible location for secret diplomatic missions. Certainly they’ve already hid Haladdin somewhere… actually, that’s easy to check. I’ll send a courier to Emyn Arnen right away – I owe the Prince of Ithilien my best regards anyway. Should the messenger find neither Haladdin nor Tangorn there – which is what I expect – send your people to Umbar at once. Get moving, Captain, and get well soon: there’s plenty of work to do.”

“So where is Wolverine now?”

“He’s in Isengard, commanding a band of marauding Dungarians. His mission is obtaining ‘blasting fire.’”

“What about Mongoose?”

“He’s in Mindolluin, a prisoner in the quarry,” answered the Task Force Féanor member tasked with briefing Cheetah, clarifying: “He’s part of Operation Mockingbird, Captain. His extraction is planned for next Tuesday.”

“Can we speed up the wrap-up of that operation?”

“No, Captain, sir. Mongoose is working without cover, and that quarry is the Queen’s men bailiwick. Should we expose him, he’ll be dead in five minutes or less: ‘escape attempt’ and finished.”

“Very well,” he estimated a courier’s round-trip to Emyn Arnen, “this will keep till Tuesday. Send him to me the moment he shows up.”

Chapter 32

Gondor, Mount Mindolluin

May 19, 3019

From bird’s eye view the Mindolluin quarry which supplied limestone to Minas Tirith builders looked like a chipped porcelain bowl, its inside covered by hundreds of tiny persistent ants looking for traces of sugar. On a nice day like today the white cavity functioned as a sunlight-gathering reflector, and its inner area, isolated from the winds, was hot as hell. And this in the middle of May; Kumai tried not to think of what it was going to be like in the summer. Sure, the prisoners who ended up in Anfalas, on the galleys, fared much worse, but that was not much of a consolation. He was actually very lucky today, drawing a work detail at the very top edge, where a refreshing breeze blew and there was almost no chocking calcium dust. Of course, those working on the outer perimeter of the quarry had to wear leg irons, but he found that an agreeable trade-off.

For the second week now Kumai’s partner was Mbanga, a múmak driver from the Harad battalion, who did not speak Common. Over the last six weeks the overseers had kicked into him the knowledge of all the words they considered necessary and sufficient (up, go, carry this, roll that, hands on the back of your head); however, translating the expression ‘lazy black ass’ stupefied both sides, so they made do with ‘nigger.’ Mbanga was in kind of a permanent semi-dreaming state and did not seek to expand his vocabulary by communicating with the other prisoners. Perhaps he still mourned his perished Tongo – the múmakil and their drivers develop a human-like friendship, far beyond anything between a rider and his beloved horse. Or maybe in his mind the Haradi was in his unimaginably distant South, where the stars over the savannah are so large that you can reach them with the tip of your assegai if you stretch, where any man can use simple magic to turn into a lion, and where every woman is beautiful and tireless in love.

…Once upon a time that area had been home to a mighty civilization, which left behind nothing but stepped pyramids overgrown with lush tropical greenery and roads paved with basalt plates leading nowhere. The modern history of Harad began less than a hundred years ago, when a young and energetic chief of a tribe of cattlemen from the interior named Fasimba swore to destroy the slave trade, and succeeded. It must be noted parenthetically that the countries of the South and the East had slave trade since time immemorial, but not on any serious scale; it was limited to selling beauties to harems, plus other exotica that had no economic underpinnings. The situation changed drastically when the Khand Caliphate ‘industrialized’ the business, establishing a thriving trade in black slaves throughout Middle Earth.

A well-fortified Khandian colony candidly named Slaveport arose on the shore of a deep bay at the mouth of the Kuvango, the main river artery of Eastern Harad. Its inhabitants first tried hunting for slaves themselves, but quickly realized that this was a grueling and dangerous task; as one of them put it, “much like shaving a pig: lots of squealing, little hair.” Rather than abandon the enterprise, they have established profitable alliances with chiefs of the coastal tribes; one Mdikva became their main trading partner. From that point on, the live merchandise was in steady supply in Khand’s markets, in exchange for beads, mirrors, and poorly distilled rum.

Many people had pointed out both to the inhabitants of Slaveport and their respectable agents in Khand that their method for making a living was dirtier than dirt. To that they responded philosophically that business was business and as long as there was demand it was going to be satisfied by one supplier or another (this line of reasoning is by now universally known, so there is no need to cite it in full). Be that as it may, Slaveport boomed and its businessmen got rich quickly, with the side benefit of being able to satisfy their most exotic sexual fantasies thanks to the unlimited supply of young black girls (and boys) in their temporary possession. Such was the situation when Fasimba successfully poisoned six neighboring chiefs at a friendly party (actually he was the one supposed to have been poisoned, but he skillfully struck first, as was his style), joined their domains to his own and declared himself Emperor. After assembling the warriors of all seven chiefdoms into a single army and instituting both a unified command and capital punishment for any expression of tribalism, the young chief invited military advisors from Mordor, which jumped at the chance to establish a counterweight to its Khand neighbor. The Mordorians fairly quickly taught the black warriors, who knew neither fear nor discipline, how to function together in closed ranks, and the result exceeded all expectations. In addition, Fasimba was the first to fully appreciate the true battle potential of the múmakil; of course, they have been used in war since time immemorial, but he was the one to standardize and streamline the taming of calves in large numbers, thus essentially creating a new army service. The effect was similar to that of tanks in our day and age: one war machine attached to an infantry battalion is a useful thing to have, but no more than that, whereas fifty tanks gathered into a single armored fist is a force that drastically changes the nature of war.

Three years after Fasimba’s military reform he declared a war of total destruction on the coastal chiefs that were involved in slave-raiding and crushed them all in less than six months; finally, Mdikva’s turn came. Spirits were low in Slaveport when a messenger of the coastal kinglet came with good news: Mdikva’s warriors have met Fasimba’s vaunted army in a decisive battle and triumphed completely, and soon the town will receive a large shipment of good strong slaves. The Khandians breathed a sigh of relief and complained to the messenger that slave prices at the metropolis markets were down sharply (which was a total lie). The man was not overly displeased: there were so many prisoners that there would be enough rum to last half a year.

The slave caravan, personally led by Mdikva, arrived at the appointed time – a hundred eighty men and twenty women. Despite the messenger’s boasts, the chained men had a poor appearance: worn-out, covered in bruises, their wounds haphazardly bandaged with banana leaves. However, the women, paraded totally naked at the head of the column, were of such qualities that the entire garrison crowded around them, salivating and unwilling to look at anything else. This proved their undoing, for the chains were fake, the blood was paint, and the slaves themselves were the Emperor’s personal guard. The banana leaf bandages concealed star-shaped throwing knives lethal up to fifteen yards, but the guardsmen could have done without any weapons: every one of them could outrun a horse in a short sprint, dodge a flying arrow, and break eight stacked tiles with a bare fist. The city gates were captured in mere seconds, and Slaveport fell. Fasimba commanded the whole operation himself: it was he who led the ‘slave caravan’ dressed in Mdikva’s leopard-skin cape, well- known to the entire coast; the Emperor knew well that the members of the master race have never bothered to learn to tell ‘all these blackies’ apart. Mdikva himself had no further need of the cape; by that time, the ferocious fire ants in whose path he had been staked (this was now the punishment for slave-raiding) had already turned the coastal ruler into a well- cleaned skeleton.

Two weeks later a slave ship from Khand tied up at Slaveport. The captain, somewhat surprised by the deserted piers, went into town. He came back escorted by three armed Haradrim and in a voice shaky with fear told the crew to come ashore and help load the cargo. To be fair, the nature of the cargo they were to take on would have shaken anyone.

It was 1,427 tanned human skins: the entire population of Slaveport, save seven infants whom Fasimba spared for some unknown reason. Each skin bore an inscription made by the town’s clerk (who was paid honestly by being killed last with a relatively easy death) – the owner’s name and a detailed description of the tortures he had to endure before being skinned alive. The women’s skins bore a notation of exactly how many black warriors have thoroughly appreciated their qualities; the town women were few and the warriors were many, so the numbers varied but were invariably impressive. Only a few inhabitants of Slaveport were lucky enough to merit a brief note ‘died in battle.’ The top of the bill was a stuffed effigy of the governor, a relative of the Caliph himself. Professional taxidermists probably would not have approved of the material used as stuffing – the very beads the Khandians used to pay for slaves – but the Emperor had had his reasons.

Some will say that such monstrous cruelty has no justification; the chief of the Haradrim must have simply passed off his personal sadistic tendencies as revenge on the oppressors. Others will talk of ‘historical retribution’ and blame the ‘excesses’ on what the Haradrim, who were no angels, have suffered over the previous years. Such a discussion seems senseless on its merits, and is in any event irrelevant in this case. What Fasimba did to the inhabitants of the ill-fated town was neither a spontaneous expression of the chief’s cruelty nor revenge for ancestral suffering; rather, it was an important element of an fine strategic plan, conceived and carried out with a totally cool head.

Chapter 33

The Caliph of Khand, having received a gift of his subjects’ skins and a stuffed relative, reacted in precisely the way the Emperor was counting on. He had the captain and crew beheaded (choose your cargo better next time!), publicly swore to have Fasimba stuffed in the same manner, and ordered his army to Harad. His advisors, forewarned by the sailors’ sad fate, did not speak against this dumb idea; they did not dare to even insist on some scouting first. Rather than supervise preparations for the expedition, the Caliph indulged in devising the tortures he was going to inflict on Fasimba once he had him.

A month later twenty thousand Khand soldiers landed at the mouth of Kuvango next to the ruins of Slaveport and marched into the country. It should be mentioned that in terms of the amount of iron they had to carry (and especially the gold-plated doodads studding said iron) the Khand warriors were unequaled in all Middle Earth. The problem was that their battle experience was limited to putting down peasant revolts and similar policing actions. It looked like this was quite enough to deal with the black savages – the Haradrim fled in panic the moment they saw the menacing gleam of the iron phalanx. The Khandians chased the disorderly fleeing enemy through the coastal jungle and entered the savannah, where they met Fasimba’s patiently waiting main force the very next morning.

Too late did the Caliph’s nephew commanding the army realize that the Harad forces were twice the size of his and about ten times as effective. Strictly speaking, there was no battle as such; rather, there was one devastating múmakil attack, followed by a disorderly rout and chase of the fleeing enemy. The casualty tallies speak for themselves: a thousand and a half killed and eighteen thousand captured Khandians versus about a hundred dead Haradrim.

Some time later the Caliph received from Fasimba a detailed description of the battle together with an offer to trade all the prisoners for all the Haradrim enslaved in Khand. Alternatively, the Caliph was advised to send to Slaveport a ship capable of taking on eighteen thousand human skins; by now Khand knew well that the Emperor was not joking. Fasimba made another foresighted move when he freed about two hundred prisoners, who went home to inform the entire population of Khand as to the nature of Haradi offer. As was to be expected, the people became restless and the smell of rebellion was in the air. A week later the Caliph, whose forces have been reduced to his palace guard, gave in. The exchange Fasimba offered took place in Slaveport, and the Emperor acquired a status of a living deity among his people – for to the Haradrim a return from Khandian slavery was only a little short of resurrection.

Since then, the fearsome Harad Empire (which had neither a written language nor cities, but plenty of ritual cannibalism, gloomy black magic, and witch-hunting) had widened its borders considerably. At first the black warriors expanded only to the south and east, but in the last twenty years or so they have turned their gaze north and captured a significant chunk of Khandian territory, approaching closely to the borders of Umbar, South Gondor, and Ithilien. The Mordorian ambassador at the Emperor’s court sent dispatch after dispatch to Barad-Dur: unless swift measures are taken, soon the civilized states of Central and Western Middle Earth will face a terrifying opponent – untold multitudes of excellent warriors who know neither fear nor mercy.

Therefore, relying on a Khandian saying ‘the only way to get rid of crocodiles is to drain the swamp,’ Mordor began sending missionaries South. Those did not bother the blacks with sermons about the One too much, rather spending their time treating sick children and teaching them arithmetic and reading, for which purpose they have invented a written version of the Haradi language based on the Common alphabet. When one of its creators, one Reverend Aljuno, read the first text created by a little Haradi (it was a description of a lion hunt, remarkable in its poetic qualities), he knew that he had not lived for naught.

It would be an obvious exaggeration to say that that these activities have resulted in a noticeable tempering of the local mores. However, the missionaries themselves enjoyed an almost religious reverence, and the word ‘Mordor’ elicited the most white-toothed of smiles from any Haradi. Besides, Harad (unlike some ‘civilized’ countries) had never suffered from selective memory loss; everybody there knew full well who had helped them against the Khandian slave traders. That was why Emperor Fasimba the Third immediately responded to the Mordorian ambassador’s request for help against the Western Coalition with a select force of cavalry and múmakil – the very Harad battalion that fought so valiantly on the Field of Pelennor under the scarlet Snake banner.

Only a few black men survived that battle, including the head of cavalry, the famous Captain Umglangan. Ever since that day he had a recurrent vision, bright as day: two ranks facing each other in portentous silence upon a strange blue savannah, fifteen yards apart – the range of the assegai; both are comprised of the best warriors of all times, but the right line lacks one fighter. It’s time to start, but for some reason Udugvu the Fearsome has mercy on Umglangan and is delaying the signal to begin this best of men’s amusements – where are you, Captain? Take your place in the rank quickly!.. What is a warrior to do when his heart calls him to the foot of Udugvu’s black basalt throne while the commander’s duty orders him to report to his Emperor? It was a hard choice, but he chose Duty, and now, after surviving a thousand dangers, he has already reached the borders of Harad.

He brings sad news to Fasimba: the men of the North who were like brothers to the Haradrim have fallen in battle, and now there is nobody but enemies in the Northern lands. But this is wonderful, in a way – now there are so many battles and glorious victories ahead! He saw the warriors of the West in action, and there’s no way they will withstand the black fighters when those are an army rather than a small volunteer battalion under the scarlet banner. He will report that the cavalry gap which had so concerned them is no more: not so long ago the Haradrim didn’t know how to fight on horseback, and now they had acquitted themselves well against the best cavalry of the West. Nor do the Westerners know anything about Haradi infantry yet; of all he had seen there only the Trollish infantry could possibly match it, and now no one. And the múmakil are the múmakil – the closest thing to an absolute weapon. Had we not lost twenty in that cursed forest ambush, who knows how the tide might have turned at Pelennor… They’re afraid of fire arrows? Not a problem, we’ll take care of that when training calves. The West had chosen its fate when it crushed Mordor which stood between them.

…Mbanga the driver was concerned with a problem much less global in scope. Despite having no knowledge of mathematics, ever since that morning he had been working on a fairly complicated planimetric problem which Engineer Second Class Kumai (had he known about his partner’s plans) would have described as ‘minimization of the sum of two variable distances’ – from Mbanga to the overseer and from the overseer to the edge of the quarry. Of course, he is not Umglangan’s equal to count on a place in the ranks of the best warriors of all times, but if he manages to die as planned, then Udugvu in his boundless mercy will allow him to forever hunt lions in his heavenly savannah. Carrying out the plan was not going to be easy, though. Mbanga, weakened by six weeks of near-starvation and hard labor, intended to kill with his bare hands a large man, armed to the teeth and far from absent-minded, in less than twenty seconds; if he took any longer than that, the other overseers would reach him and whip him to death: a piteous slave’s demise…

It happened so quickly that even Kumai missed Mbanga’s first move. He saw only a black lightning hitting the overseer’s legs – the Haradi crouched as if to adjust his shackles and suddenly lunged headfirst; so does a deadly tree mamba strike its prey, penetrating a tangle of branches with astonishing precision. The black man’s right shoulder struck the overseer’s leg full force exactly under the kneecap; Kumai imagined actually hearing the wet crunch of the joint sack tearing and the delicate cartilage menisci snapping out of their sockets. The Gondorian sagged down without even a moan in pain shock; in a flash the Haradi had the unconscious man slung over his shoulder and hurried towards the precipice in a fast shackle trot. Mbanga beat the guards converging on him from all directions by a good thirty yards; having reached the coveted edge, he tossed his burden down into the shining white abyss and was now calmly awaiting his enemies, captured sword in hand. Of course, none of those Western carrion-eaters dared cross blades with him – they simply showered him with arrows. This, however, was of no importance: he had managed to die in battle, weapon in hand, so he had earned the right to throw the first assegai in the heavenly lion hunt. What’s three arrows in the gut compared to such eternal bliss?

The Haradrim always die smiling, and this smile boded nothing good for the Western countries, as some far-sighted men were already beginning to guess.

Chapter 34

“Bastard’s dead!” the huge blond overseer concluded disappointedly after carefully crushing Mbanga’s fingers with his heel (no reaction); then he trained his bloodshot eyes on Kumai, standing motionless to the side. “But devil take me,” he tossed his whip from one hand to another, “if his buddy won’t pay with his whole hide for Ernie right now…”

Kumai instinctively blocked the first blow with his elbow, immediately losing a patch of skin. Roaring with pain, he lunged at the blond man, and four others joined the fun. They beat him for a long time, attentively and with a great deal of inventiveness, until it became clear that further action was useless on the insensible Troll. Well, whaddya think – someone has to pay for the dead overseer, right?

By then the guard chief showed up, yelled: “Enough fun!” and chased them all back to their posts – he certainly didn’t want another deader on his report. See, the deal’s like this: if this animal kicks the bucket right here, then he’ll have to deal with the master of the works (another asshole!), but if it happens later, in the barracks – then it’s gonna be a ‘natural loss,’ no questions asked. He nodded for the nearest bunch of prisoners who had watched the beating fearfully to come over, and a short time later Kumai was sprawled over the rotten straw in his barrack. Anyone with experience could tell at a glance that this half-corpse covered in tatters of bloody skin was not for this world for much longer. A couple of months prior the Troll managed to cheat death after heavy injury in the Battle of Pelennor, but now his luck seemed to have run out.

…When Éomer’s riders broke through the South Army’s defenses and panic ensued, Engineer Second Class Kumai was cut off north of the camp, at the siege engine park. Seven more engineers were bottled up with him; being the senior there, he had to assume command. Not being an expert on either strategy or tactics, he saw just one thing clearly: in a few minutes all the abandoned machinery would be captured, so the only thing left was to destroy it. The Troll established order in his company with an iron hand (one of the seven who blurted something like “run for your lives!” remained lying senseless by a bunch of assault ladders) and ascertained that at least they had enough naphtha, the One be praised. In a minute his subordinates rushed all around like ants, pouring it over the catapults and the bases of siege towers, while he hurried to the ‘gates’ – the break in the ring of wagons surrounding the park – and ran smack into a forward troop of Rohirrim.

The mounted warriors treated the suddenly appearing lonely Mordorian without due respect, and paid for it. Kumai was strong even by Trollish standards (once at a student party he had walked a window ledge with dead-drunk Haladdin slumped in an armchair held in his outstretched arms), so his weapon of choice right then was a large wagon shaft that came to hand. Only one of the four riders managed to back off in time; the rest fell where they met that monstrous spinner.

Even so the Rohirrim were not discouraged much. Six more riders materialized out of the deepening gloom and formed a semi-circle bristling with spears. Kumai first tried to block the way with one of the wagons, turning it by the rear axle, but saw that he would not be in time. Stepping back a little and keeping the enemies in sight, he called over his shoulder: “Fire it, by damn!”

“We’re not done, sir!” someone responded from behind, “the large catapults are still dry!”

“Fire what you can! The Westerners are here already!” he roared, and then addressed the battle-ready Rohirrim in Common: “Hey, who’s not a coward? Who’ll meet the mountain Troll in honest battle?”

It worked! The rank broke, and a few seconds later a dismounted officer wearing the white plumage of a cornet stood before him: “Are you ready, fair sir?” Kumai grabbed the pole by the middle, made a quick forward lunge – and found the Rohani less than two yards away; the only thing that saved the Troll was that the light Rohan blade could not cut through the pole which took the brunt of the blow. The engineer hastily backed inside the park, trying to gain precious seconds, but was unable to break away: the cornet was fleet as a ferret, and Kumai’s chances with his clumsy weapon were about zero in close quarters. “Fire and run like hell!” he yelled, seeing clearly that he was finished. Indeed, the next moment the world exploded in a white flash of blinding pain and instantly faded into comforting dark. The cornet’s blow split his helmet clean apart, so he never saw how the very next second everything around turned into a sea of flames – his people did manage to finish the job… A few seconds later the Rohirrim, backing away from the heat, saw their reckless officer trudging from the depths of that roaring furnace, bent under the weight of the unconscious Troll. “What the hell, cornet?” “I must know the name of this fair sir! He’s a captive of my spear, after all…”

Kumai came to only three days later in a Rohani hospital tent, lying side by side with the three riders he felled; the steppe warriors made no distinction between the wounded and treated them all equally. Unfortunately, in this case it meant ‘equally bad:’ the engineer’s head was in bad shape, but the only medicine he got during that time was a flagon of wine brought by Cornet Jorgen who had captured him. The cornet voiced hope that once the Engineer Second Class was healed he would honor him with another fight, preferably with a weapon more traditional than a pole. Certainly he can be free within the confines of the camp, on his word as an officer… However, a week later the Rohirrim left on the Mordorian campaign, to win the crown of the Reunited Kingdom for Aragorn, and that same day Kumai and all the other wounded were sent to the Mindolluin quarry. Gondor was already a civilized country, unlike the backward Rohan…

How he managed to survive those first hellish days, with a busted head and a concussion that kept sending him into pits of unconsciousness, was a total enigma; most likely it was simply Trollish stubbornness, to spite the warders. All the same, Kumai had no illusions regarding his fate. In his time, as required by the tradition of well-off Trollish families, Kumai had followed the entire career path of a worker in his father’s mines at Tzagan-Tzab, from miner to surveyor’s assistant. He knew enough about mining to understand that no one was concerned with economics here; they were sent to Mindolluin to die, rather than earn the quarry owners some profit. The daily food-to-production-quota ratio for Mordorian prisoners was such as to be bald-faced ‘killing on an installment plan.’

By the third week, when some prisoners were already dead and the others managed to more or less adapt to this murderous cadence (what else could they do?), an Elvish inspection team swooped in. What shame, what barbarity! those folks carried on. Isn’t it obvious that these people are capable of a lot more than driving wheel-barrows? There are plenty of experts in all kinds of trades here – take them and use them properly, damn it! The Gondorian bosses scratched their heads abashedly: “our bad, your eminences!” and instantly conducted a skill survey. As a result, a few dozen lucky ones traded the hell of Mindolluin for work in their chosen fields, leaving the quarry forever.

Whatever, the One be their judge… As for himself, Kumai did not think it proper to buy his life by building heavier-than-air aircraft for the enemy (that being his trade): some things are not to be done because they must not be done, period. An escape from Mindolluin was obviously a pipe dream, and he saw no other ways to get out of here. In the meantime, undernourishment was doing its work – he became more and more apathetic. It is hard to say how long he would have lasted in this mode – maybe a week, maybe even six months (but almost certainly not a year) – were it not for Mbanga, the One rest his soul, who managed to slam the door on his way out so spectacularly as to also solve all of Kumai’s problems once and for all.

Chapter 35

Close to evening a stranger visited the Mordorians’ barrack where the Engineer Second Class was being wracked by a consuming fever. He was wiry and quick in his movements, his swarthy Southerner’s face marked by decisiveness – most likely an officer off an Umbarian privateer who by a quirk of fate wound up at Mindolluin rather than dangling off the yardarm of a royal galley. He stood for a minute over the bloody mess already presided over by hordes of fat flies and grumbled to no one in particular: “Yeah, prob’ly a goner by morning…” Then he disappeared, only to re-appear a half an hour later and, much to the surprise of Kumai’s fellow inmates, begin treating him. Ordering them to hold the patient down, he started rubbing a yellowish ointment smelling sharply of camphor right into the bleeding welts; the pain was enough to jerk Kumai back from wobbly unconsciousness, and had he not been so weakened, his fellows would not have been able to keep him pinned down. Pirate (as the prisoners took to calling him) kept working calmly, and just a few minutes later the wounded man relaxed, melting with copious sweat, and sank into a real sleep like a stone in a pond.

The ointment was truly miraculous: by morning the welts had not only closed but started itching like crazy – a sure sign of healing. Only a few inflamed, and the Pirate, who showed up before morning call, got to work on those. Kumai, mostly back to life by then, greeted his savior gloomily: “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but surely you could’ve found a better use for your wonderful medicine. What use is saving the one who’s going to die soon anyway?”

“Well, a man has to do stupid things from time to time, or stop being a man. Turn a bit… yes… Bear this, engineer, it’ll be better soon… Oh yes, speaking about doing stupid things. Forgive my curiosity, but why have you stayed to die in this quarry? You could have been sitting pretty in the King’s labs in Minas Tirith right now.”

Kumai grunted: “It’s the simple wisdom of prostitutes I’ve followed all my life: don’t hustle while under a client…” and cut himself short when it suddenly occurred to him: how does this guy know about my trade when I’ve told no one about it and have concealed it during that ‘skill survey?’

“A commendable stance,” nodded Pirate without a shadow of a smile. “The most interesting thing is that in our case it’s also the most pragmatically correct one; actually, the only correct one. You see, all those who have hustled back then are already dead, whereas you will soon be free, with a bit of luck.”

“Dead? How do you know?”

“I buried them myself, that’s how. I’m a gravedigger here, you see.”

Kumai digested this in silence for some time. The most horrible thing was his first thought: good riddance! And then: my God, whom did I turn into here? He did not understand Pirate’s next words right away:

“In other words, you made the right choice, mechanic Kumai. As you can see, the Motherland had not forgotten you and has set up a special operation to save you. I am one of the participants in this operation.”

“How?” He was totally dumbfounded. “What Motherland?”

“What, do you have several?”

“You’re crazy! Someone really is ready to sacrifice a bunch of people just to get me out of here?”

“We are following orders,” Pirate answered drily, “and it is not our business to decide what is more important to Mordor: a spy network that took years to create or a certain Engineer Second Class.”

“I’m sorry… By the way, somehow I haven’t asked your name yet.”

“You did right – you have no need to know it. Your escape will begin in a few minutes, and no matter what happens, we’ll never meet again.”

“In a few minutes?! Listen, I’m a lot better now, but hardly enough to… how am I supposed to get past the outer guard?” “As a corpse, of course. Remember that I serve on the burial detail. Don’t worry, you’re neither the first nor the last.”

“So all those who were…”

“Alas, that job was for real. That was Elvish work, there was nothing we could do… Anyway: you will now drink from this bottle and ‘die,’ to all appearances, for about twelve hours; after what happened to you yesterday, no one will be the wiser. The rest is technical details that do not concern you.”

“What do you mean, don’t concern me?”

“Very simple. I advise you to supplement your wonderful ‘don’t hustle when under the client’ principle with another one: ‘the less you know, the better you sleep.’ Whatever you need to know you will know when it’s time. Drink, Kumai, time is of the essence.”

The liquid in the bottle worked in seconds; the last thing he saw was Pirate’s swarthy face with a myriad of tiny scars around the lips.

…Kumai never found out what happened later to his ‘corpse’ (six beats per minute pulse, no visible reactions). Nor was there any reason for him to learn how he rode the corpse cart under a pile of dead bodies, or how he lay in the nearby abandoned quarry under a layer of gravel, awaiting transport. He came to in total darkness; everything’s in order – if Pirate was right about the twelve hours, it should be night now. Where am I? A stable, to judge by the smell… The moment he moved, an unfamiliar voice with a hard-to-place accent spoke:

“Congratulations on your safe arrival, Engineer Second Class! You can relax – the road ahead is long, but the biggest danger is past.”

“Thank you, ah…”

“Superintendant. Just Superintendant.”

“Thank you, Superintendant. That man, back in the quarry…”

“He’s all right. You don’t need to know more.”

“Can I send him my regards?”

“I doubt it. But I’ll report your request.”

“Permission to ask a question?”

“Permission granted.”

“Am I expected to create new weaponry?”

“Certainly.” “But my specialty is completely different!”

“Do you intend to teach your superiors, Engineer Second Class?”

“No, sir.” He hesitated. “I’m just not sure…”

“But the HQ is sure.” The Superintendant’s voice thawed a little. “After all, you won’t be working alone. There’s a whole group there. Jageddin is the boss.”

“The Jageddin?!”

“The very same.”

“Not bad…”

Say what you want – but there is a certain charm in not having to think about much and just doing what you’re told…

“So, you just lie there and get better. Were it not for this stupid incident with the overseers, you could’ve gotten started right now, but as it is, we’ll have to wait.”

“You know, I’m well enough to go home, to Mordor, as it is.”

The invisible man chuckled: “Why do you think you’re going to Mordor?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s very simple, really. You’re a wanted man, or at least we’re anticipating such an eventuality; as you’ve seen, the Elves are very thorough. Whereas you must work, rather than hide – two very different tasks.”

“All right; where, then?”

“Think. What’s the best place to stash stolen goods? In a policeman’s attic. What’s the darkest spot? Right under the lamp. Get it?”

“You mean to say…” Kumai said slowly; he felt cold in his gut, because all the pieces of the wonderful puzzle that was his miraculous escape began to fit into a very different picture: a clever ruse. “You mean to say that I’m staying here, in Gondor?”

“No. To be honest, it would be tempting to hide you in Gondor, nor would it be too difficult in any other time. We were working on this option, but had to abandon it. The thing is, right now the King and the Queen are jockeying for position in Minas Tirith; both have their own secret services which spy on each other, so it would be real easy to attract their attention purely by accident. So, unfortunately, no local option for us. But the world is not limited to Gondor and Mordor… By the way, were it the Reunited Kingdom trying to use you, they would most likely have sent you to Mordor: between them, the army and the counter-intelligence service of the victorious nation could have set up an ‘ivory tower’ for you bar none. Do you agree?” Silence fell for a couple of seconds.

“Damn! Is it so obvious on my face?”

“Without a doubt – although I can’t see your face in this dark. In other words, let the experts worry about such things and do the job you know how to do, all right?”

“Please accept my apologies, Superintendant.”

“Don’t worry about it. As long as we’re on the subject: the people you’ll be working with at that ‘university’ got there in a variety of ways; many are your good friends. You can discuss anything your heart desires with them – student parties, news of the Resistance, philosophy – anything but the story of how you got there. Loose talk on the subject can cost a lot of people their lives – both my colleagues, like our mutual friend in Mindolluin, and your colleagues still in the hands of the enemy. I say this with utmost seriousness and responsibility. Do you understand, Engineer Second Class?”

“Yes, Superintendant.”

“Very good. Get well soon and move on.”

“Congratulations, Mongoose.” Cheetah straightened up in his armchair and looked over the Secret Guard lieutenant standing there at attention. “I have examined your report on Operation Mockingbird. Six men rescued – great job. The Service thanks you.”

“His Majesty’s servant, sir!”

“At ease, Lieutenant. Sit down, this is no parade ground. So the retreat from Mindolluin happened under the emergency option?”

“Yes, sir. The last man I’ve watched – engineer Kumai, number thirty-six on our list – got into a stupid mess the day before the planned escape. The local warders turned him into chopped liver, and I had to fix him up real fast; to be honest, first I thought that there was no hope. I did save and extract him, but this completely exposed me: the snitches reported the healing, and… In other words, your boys from the backup team showed up just in time.”

“Yeah,” Cheetah grumbled and looked at the shabby walls of the safe house with visible disgust, “quite in time… Two dead bodies, three wounded, Her Majesty’s entire Secret Service is frantically looking for a Mordorian spy: a swarthy man with small scars around the mouth. Meanwhile, the police is looking for an escaped convict of the same description… I think, lieutenant, that it’s high time you changed climates; get packing to go South, to work in Umbar.”

“Yes, Captain, sir!” “Here, examine this dossier. Baron Tangorn, Faramir’s Umbarian resident before the war. We have reasons to believe that he is doing the same thing we are doing – looking for Mordorian experts and documents for his prince; there are indications that soon he’ll show up in Umbar. Your task is to capture Tangorn and get all the information concerning this Ithilienian venture out of him. His Majesty considers this operation to be of exceptional importance.”

“May I treat him harshly to get the information?”

“It won’t work in any other way; judging by this dossier, the baron is not the kind to buy his life with the secrets he’s been trusted with. In any case he’ll have to be disposed of after the interrogation, since we’re formally allied with Ithilien, so this whole story must not become known.”

“How will he come to Umbar – in an official capacity or?..”

“Most likely ‘or.’ You have an important advantage: it appears that Tangorn doesn’t know that he’s being hunted. He may even stay openly in a local hotel, at least at first, and then his capture will not be a problem. But the baron is an old hand; if he detects something amiss, he’ll disappear in that city like a frog in a pond.”

“Understood. Will I operate independently, alone?”

“Independently, but not alone. You’ll have three sergeants – choose them yourself, out of our people. If you find him quick, that should be more than enough. But if you spook him…”

“That can’t happen, Captain, sir!”

“Anything can happen to anyone,” Cheetah responded in annoyance, involuntarily glancing at his foot. “Anyway, while searching in the city you may not ask the local station for help, which is a great pity: they have a lot of manpower, and, more importantly, excellent contacts in the local police…”

“May I know why?”

“Because we have information that the Elves are very active in Umbar and there’s a strong pro-Elvish underground there. Under no circumstances may Lórien find out about your operation – this is the strictest order – and I’m concerned with leaks: our people are in the shortest supply, and all the resident spies in Umbar are regular people…” Cheetah hesitated a little and finished in a humdrum sort of tone: “You will have a G-mandate, just in case.”

Mongoose looked up at the captain, as if to confirm what he heard. So this is what ‘His Majesty considers this operation to be of exceptional importance’ means. A G-mandate allows a member of the Secret Service to act in the name of the King. In overseas operations this can be necessary for only two reasons: to give a direct order to the ambassador or to depose (or eliminate on the spot) the local chief of station…