Кирилл Еськов - The Last Ringbearer

“It’s proper behavior for a soldier and a gentleman,” the prisoner replied drily. “I hope that you will not view my accidental admission as an attempt to plead for my life.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Baron. I believe that the sergeant and I owe you at least a partial payment on this debt; looks like it’s our turn to behave foolishly…” He looked back at the Orocuen; the latter hesitated, but then gestured acceptance: do as you think best.

“Forgive my not-so-idle curiosity: what will you do if we set you free?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. Here, in Mordor, if the Elves capture me they will finish what Eloar’s men started, even if not in such an exotic manner. There’s nothing to come back to in Gondor: my King is dead, and I do not intend to serve his murderer and usurper…”

“What do you mean, Baron? We had no news since Pelennor.”

“Denethor died a horrible death; supposedly he immolated himself on a funeral pyre. The very next day there was a ready claimant to the throne. You see, there’s an old legend, which no one has taken seriously before, that the ruling Anarion dynasty is only taking care of the throne for the descendants of the mythical Isildur. Such a descendant has shown up – one Aragorn, of the northern rangers. To prove his dynastic rights he produced a sword, supposedly the legendary Andúril , although who had ever seen this Andúril ? He also performed several healings by laying of hands, although all those healed were from among his northern followers… Prince Faramir, the heir apparent, retired to Ithilien and is supposedly a prince there under the eye of Captain Beregond – the same one who confirmed Denethor’s ‘self-immolation.’”

“And no one in the West objected to all this?”

“Aragorn’s Secret Guard – rumor has it that they’re all living dead, animated by Elvish magic – had quickly taught Gondorians not to ask such questions. As for Éomer, they get whatever they want from him, which is not surprising, since his sister is under guard with Faramir in Ithilien. Actually, it appears that Aragorn himself is an Elvish puppet, and the real ruler of Gondor is Arwen – his wife from Lórien.”

“What about our home, Mordor?”

“Barad-Dur has been razed to the ground. The Elves are now forming a kind of a local administration from all sorts of trash. It seems to me that they are destroying all remnants of civilization and are systematically hunting down anyone with an education. I think they intend to push your people back into the Stone Age.”

“What about your people?”

“I think that our turn will come, but for now they need us.”

Tzerlag broke the ensuing silence. “All right. First we need to finish burying the people of this camp. After that you can do whatever, but I intend to collect a debt from this – what’s his name? – Eloar. The owner of the blue yurt was my aunt twice-removed, so it’s a blood feud now.” “May I join you, Sergeant?” Tangorn asked unexpectedly, and explained to the puzzled Orocuen: “They took my sword, a family heirloom. It would be nice to get the Slumber-maker back; besides, I would rather like to send these guys my regards from beyond the grave.”

The scout studied the Gondorian directly for some time, then nodded: “Tangorn… I do remember you from Osgiliath last year. It was you that took down Detz-Zeveg, the ‘King of the Spearmen.’”

“Right, I have had this honor.”

“The only thing is, we don’t have a sword to fit you. Ever use a scimitar?”

“I’ll figure it out somehow.”

“All right, then.”

Mordor, near the Old Núrnen Highway

Night of April 11, 3019

“Where have you studied languages, Baron?”

“Well, I’ve spent over six years in Umbar and Khand, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve started at home. Prince Faramir – we’re childhood friends – has an excellent library, mostly in Eastern languages, of course; could I let it go unused? That’s why I’m here in Mordor, actually – I wanted to sift through the wreckage. Put together a whole bag of books; those guys took it, by the way, together with the Slumber-maker, ” Tangorn nodded towards the double-crested dune, where darkness hid Eloar’s camped company, tracked by Tzerlag. “Among other things I’ve found a loose page of excellent verse I haven’t seen before:

Would you happen to know the author?”

“That’s Saheddin. Strictly speaking, he’s a wizard and an alchemist, not a poet. He publishes verse from time to time, and claims that he’s only a translator of texts created in other worlds. You’re right, the poetry’s great.”

“Damn, but that’s a cute idea! For sure one can describe the World in a myriad ways, but a true poetic text where you can’t change a single letter has to be the most precise and economical one, and universal for that reason alone! If there is anything in common between various worlds, it has to be poetry… and music, of course. Such texts must exist before us, written into the very fabric of what Is and what Could Be by the sound of a seashell, the pain of unrequited love, the smell of spring forest – one must only learn to perceive them… Poets do this intuitively, but what if this Saheddin discovered a formal method for doing so? Why not?”

“Right, something like modern geology to look for ores, rather than unreliable guesses of the diviners. So you, too, think that the World is Text?”

“My world certainly is, but that’s a matter of taste.”

Yeah, the World is Text, thought Haladdin. Wouldn’t it be nice to someday read the paragraph describing how one day I will join two likeable professional killers – what else are they? – to hunt nine subhumans – why, how are those different from all the others? – and will conduct a profound discussion of poetry right before the battle, to control the taste of copper in my mouth and the disgusting feeling of cold fear at the pit of my stomach? Truly, the author of such a text has a great imagination and a great future.

His musings were interrupted when a bright double star above the dune hiding them blinked as if obscured by a bird of the night. So this is it… would that he could have a stiff drink right now… He rose into a crouch and began stuffing his weapons for tonight – a short Orocuen bow of unfamiliar construction and a quiver with six assorted arrows – into his shoulder bag. Meanwhile, Tangorn, still unaccustomed to Tzerlag’s skills, stared in mute amazement at the scout who had silently appeared from nowhere a few steps away.

“Fair sirs, one can hear your whispers from thirty paces off. Were it my boys rather than those lowlifes, you’d already be counting stars on the One’s robes… Whatever, bygones. Looks like I managed to grab my quarry by the very tail. Way I see it, they are heading for that highway outpost that the Baron had mentioned, and that, I figure, is no more than five or six miles away; we won’t be able to get them there. So here’s the plan…”

Here the sands of the erg bordered the western edge of a large hamada of many a square mile – a silent sea rolling its waves onto a grim stony beach. The largest wave was appropriately right against the shoreline – a huge dune stretching half a mile each way from a fire burning at the middle of its foot. The Elf has chosen his campsite wisely: the forty- foot dune slope in the back and the flat expanse of the hamada in the front; the two lookouts placed twenty yards to the north and the south of the fire along the bottom of the dune fully covered all lines of possible attack. Not much fuel around here, but saxaul burns long and hot, almost like coal; a dozen arm-thick logs from every member of the party will provide enough warmth to last the night.