Кирилл Еськов - The Last Ringbearer

“This is very naïve, Troll. I’m not calling you Cloud, because that name is as false as everything else you’ve told us. There are two golden rules for responding to an interrogation: avoid direct lies and too many details. You broke both. Tell me, driver of the mechanical dragon, what was the strength and direction of the wind on that day?”

That’s it, then – who would’ve thought that the Elf knew anything about flying? In any event, while spinning all that nonsense Kumai was readying a certain surprise for his interrogators. The dejected pose he had assumed allowed him to gather his legs under him, and now, seeing that the game was up, he lunged forward like an uncoiling spring, trying to reach the Elf in the silver-black cloak with his free left hand. He would have probably succeeded if not for another mistake: he met the Elf’s eye in the process.

The clofoel of Tranquility stopped the leather-jacket guy from dashing at the suddenly frozen Troll with an annoyed flick of the wrist – why bother now? – and turned to his companion with a mocking smile: “So how about spending some time alone with this specimen, milady Eornis? Changed your mind?”

“On the contrary – he’s magnificent, a real beast!”

“You sport! Very well, since you like his manhood so much, you can keep him. But not until we work him a little, lest he die in your embrace – it could happen, you know – and take everything he knows with him… You’d be really upset with such an outcome, wouldn’t you?”

“Wake up!” The leather-jacket standing behind Kumai’s chair kicked him habitually in the Achilles’ tendon, the pain immediately jerking the Troll out of a second-long blissful unconsciousness.

“Where did you fly from? What was your mission?” That was the man at the table. They worked together: one asking questions (the same ones over and over, hour after hour), the other kicking the prisoner’s heel from behind whenever he tried either to stand up or to put down his head, leaden with insomnia. The kicks were not even that strong, but always in the same spot, so after a dozen hits the pain turned unbearable, making all his thoughts about the next inevitable kick… Kumai had no illusions: this was not even a warm-up. They simply had not started on him in earnest yet, only depriving him of water and sleep so far.

The engineer forbade himself to consider what might follow once they saw that he was not going to cooperate. He simply decided to hold out for as long as possible to buy some time for Grizzly and Wolverine – maybe those smart guys would figure out the danger and save the Weapon Monastery. He had absent-mindedly left a map with the flight route to the Nimrodel on top of his work table, and his only hope now was that someone would find it and connect it to his disappearance. But how are they to guess that I’m alive and in the Elves’ hands, rather than dead? What can they do even if they guess – evacuate Dol Guldur? Don’t know; revelations and miracles are the One’s job, mine is to hold out and hope…

“Wake up!” This time the guy behind him overdid his blow, knocking Kumai out. When the engineer came to, the leather-jacket at the table had been replaced by the Elf in the silver- black cloak.

“Have you ever been told that you’re an incredibly lucky man, Troll?”

He had lost track of time some unbelievably long time ago; the harsh light bounced off the walls and ate at his watering eyes, and a handful of hot sand had accumulated under each eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut and once again slid into the abyss of sleep… This time he was brought back almost politely, with a shake of the shoulder instead of the usual kick – something must’ve changed in their setup…

“Anyway, to continue: I don’t know who advised you to fly your mission in uniform, but our lawyers – may they burn in the Eternal Fire! – have suddenly decided that this makes you a prisoner of war, rather than a spy. According to your Middle Earth laws a prisoner of war is protected by the Convention: he can’t be forced to break his oath and all that…” The Elf dug through papers on his desk, found the needed spot and put his finger on it with visible disapproval. “As I understand it, they want to trade you for someone, so sign here and go get some sleep.”

Kumai opened his parched lips: “I’m illiterate.”

“An illiterate driver of a mechanical dragon? Not bad… Print your finger, then.”

“Like hell.”

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

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

He only believed in his victory when he saw lembas on a small table in his cell, and – most importantly – a pitcher of ice-cold water, its clay sides covered with a silvery web that turned into large drops under his fingers. The water had a slightly sweet tang to it, but he did not notice it – a man who had gone without water for several days is simply incapable of doing so. Sleep came, sweet and light, as it always is after a victory. He smelled home – old wood, couch leather, Dad’s pipe and something else without a name; Mama was quietly puttering in the kitchen, cooking his favorite black beans and surreptitiously wiping away tears; Sonya and Halik – their carefree pre-war selves – were eagerly asking him about his adventures; well, guys, that was really something, you’d never believe…

Smiling happily, he talked in his sleep.

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

…His superiors at Dol Guldur decided that he was dead: “Apparently he has miscalculated his altitude during the most recent flight, which was at night, and hit a tree. Attempts to locate the body and the remains of the glider near the castle have not proved fruitful yet.” The next day, following his instructions, Grizzly sealed the engineer’s papers, including the flight maps, and sent it all to Féanor headquarters in Minas Tirith without reading.

Lórien, Star Council

July 25, 3019 of the Third Age

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

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

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