Кирилл Еськов: The Last Ringbearer

So he stopped his horse, ordered everyone to dismount – to be seen better by more men – and launched into a speech strange for a warrior:

“We’re all mortal, guys; what the hell does it matter if it’s sooner or later? To me, it’s way more interesting what’s gonna happen to us afterwards. You probably think the general’s nuts to talk about life after death right now, but I reckon – when’s a better time? I mean, we’re simple guys – live in the field, pray to a shield, once the danger’s over we give it no thought till the next time… Well, guys, there’re plenty of opinions about what’s gonna be, but one thing everyone agrees on is that we all get whatever we believe in. So if you think that once your corpse rots there’s nothing left of you but a handful of dust, then that’s how it’s gonna be with you. Some faiths are even worse – you wander around the underworld forever as a shade – better to rot to nothing, indeed, than such a fate! Some expect to lie on the green grass in a pretty garden, drink heavenly nectar and play the lyre; not bad, but kinda dull to my tastes. But there is a wonderful faith in the Eastern lands – a travelling missionary told me all about it a few days ago – and it’s pretty damn good, no fooling, but its Paradise is what’s best, just my style.”

He looked around – the men seemed to be listening – and continued:

“A palace in Heaven and in it a feast to shame a royal wedding, wine flows like water from a spring, but the best part is the houranies . Those are girls who are always eighteen, beautiful beyond belief, and no doubts about their looks, for they are dressed only in a bracelet or two. And as for screwing – there are no such experts down here! One problem, though – only the righteous men are allowed there, guys such as us have no chance…”

The ranks stirred distinctly, a rumble rose and fell, someone spat: cheated, again! Éomer raised a hand and silence fell again, broken only by the listless susurration of dead grass.

“That is to say – no chance but one. There is one loophole for losers such as ourselves. In this wonderful faith anyone killed fighting for a just cause – and who’d dare say that our cause is unjust? – has all his sins forgiven and automatically considered righteous. So if any of you guys wanna get to this Paradise by living righteously – good luck to you! As for me, I have no such hopes, so I’m gonna join the houranies right here and now as a valiant martyr – when else am I gonna have such a chance? So whoever wants to and can – follow me, and good luck to the rest!”

He stood in the stirrups and yelled somewhere skyward, using his armor glove as a bullhorn:

“Ahoy, gals! Open up the Heavenly bordello, never mind the hour! Stand ready to receive three best battalions of Rohan cavalry – bet my head to a broken arrow that you won’t ever forget these customers! We’re about to attack, so we’ll join you in Heaven in about ten minutes, that should be enough for you to get ready!” And a miracle happened: the men began to stir! Laughter and elaborate cussing rose in the ranks; someone from the right flank inquired whether one could catch clap from a hourani and if so, how long it would take to cure in Heaven. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, a handsome man famous for his amorous exploits, told a furiously blushing youngster on the left flank:

“Head up, cornet! Those in the know say that there are beauties for every taste in that establishment. They must have lined up a flock of romantic maidens for you already, pining for a chance to hear you recite some verses in the moonlight!”

The young man blushed even more to booming laughter and glared angrily at the prince from under (positively girlish) thick lashes. Éomer wheeled his horse around so that dirt flew from under its hooves in a fan and called out:

“To saddle, guys! The madam up there must’ve already sent for more wine for the new customers. By the laughter of Tulkas, today every one of you will get enough Núrnen wine to drown in, be it in heaven, be it on earth! The Valar will treat the fallen, the King of Rohan will treat the living! After me!..”

He tossed his mangled helmet aside and looked back no more as he rushed the horse towards where his trained eye had spotted a tiny patch of foreign color in the unbreakable stockade of Trollish armored infantry – the dark round shields of Easterling spearmen. The wind whistled in his ears and tossed his sweaty flaxen hair; Imrahil was galloping on his right, almost nose-to-nose.

“Dammit, Prince, put on your helmet – bowmen to the right!”

“After you, fair sir!” the prince grinned at him, twirled his sword over his head, and called out in a voice hoarse from shouting orders: “Dol Amroth and the Swan!”

“Rohan and the White Horse!” echoed Éomer, while behind their backs the thunder of thousands of hooves was already building to a majestic staccato: the riders of Rohan and Dol Amroth were making their last charge, to win or die.

Everybody knows that Easterling infantry is far inferior to Mordor’s; Éomer’s charge scattered them like bowling pins, and the shining edge of Western cavalry crashed through the Mordorian defensive line. A little later another force slammed into their rear – a cutting edge of Aragorn’s remaining gray warriors, encased with Gondorian armored infantry. By about six in the evening those fangs met deep in the body of the South Army, near its camp. The battle as such was over then, and slaughter began. The parked siege engines were set ablaze, and the dancing flames highlighted now an Orocuen hospital wagon stuck in the mud, then an arrow-studded mûmak dashing around the field, trampling friend and foe alike. Éomer had just run into Aragorn in this chaos of victory and was ceremoniously hugging his brother-in-arms to everyone’s victory whoops, when he noticed a horseman approaching them at full gallop – the blushing cornet. To tell the truth, the boy had more than acquitted himself, worthy of a medal. When the Rohirrim ran into the remnants of the Southern cavalry near the camp, he took on a Haradi lieutenant one-on-one, knocking the black giant out of the saddle (to everyone’s astonishment) and seizing the enemy’s scarlet cape emblazoned with the Snake – the very cape he was now waving triumphantly. A dozen paces short of the fatherly gazing leaders the cornet dismounted, pulled off the helmet, shook his head like an unruly horse, and suddenly a mass of hair tumbled over his shoulders, the color of the sun-kissed prairie grass of the Plains of Rohan.

“Éowyn!” was all Éomer could say. “What the hell!..”

The shield-maiden stuck her tongue out at him, tossed him the Haradi cape in passing – he was left standing, stunned, clutching his sister’s trophy – and stopped in front of Aragorn.

“Greetings, Ari!” she said calmly; Nienna only knew the price of that calmness. “Congratulations on the victory. As I see it, the wartime excuses are now void. So if you don’t need me any more, say so now and, by the stars of Varda, I will immediately stop bothering you!”

“How can you say that, my Amazon!” and there she was in his saddle, looking at him with shining eyes, prattling nonsense, and then kissing him in front of everybody – the girls of Rohan are not big on southern ceremony, and a heroine of Pelennor could not care less… All Éomer could do was look at this idyllic picture and get more upset by the minute, thinking: “Fool! Open your eyes and look at his face, it’s all written plainly there – what he is to you and what you are to him! Why, why do the idiot girls always fall for scoundrels – this one isn’t even handsome…” not that he was the first or the last such in that World, or any other…