Кирилл Еськов: The Last Ringbearer

The Elves had to retreat further into the forest, leaving only well-hidden lookouts by the riverbank. Sir Taranquil, Ereborn’s second, counted the bodies laid out in a row, black butterflies already appearing over them out of nowhere (even the rain was no obstacle!), added the four washed away by the stream, gritted his teeth and swore to himself by the thrones of the Valar that those crossbowmen, be they Orcs or whoever, would pay dearly, and to hell with the Lady’s order to capture some alive. The scouts he sent out came back soon thereafter with bad news – no better than the events of the past hour. Both sides of the path were blocked by fallen trees – the domain of the giant ants – as far as the eye could see; those thickets came straight up to the water both up and down the stream, so Taranquil’s idea to send some forces up and down the bank to force the enemy to spread out was a no- go. “If we were to go back and around the thickets – how far back do they stretch?” “No idea, sir! Shall I check?” “No!” There was no time for such exploits – much has been lost already and night was coming. There was no way forward but a frontal attack.

A frontal attack does not have to be a headlong rush, though. Sir Taranquil was a much more experienced commander than his predecessor and had no desire to cross the creek playing a target. His fighters crept up to the trees by the ford, and the sniper duel resumed. This time, though, the Elves have had time to swap in spare bowstrings, plus the rain let up a little, so their arrows sped true now; finally the Elves (without a doubt the best archers in Middle Earth) could show what they could do. The Mordorian crossbowmen fired prone from behind boulders for cover, so their corpses were not visible from this side, but Taranquil could warrant that they were down from six to two at most. Only after exploiting his advantage in fire density to the fullest did he order another attack. The other bank responded with a drawn-out and imprecise volley – but from six crossbows once again! Are these Morgoth’s tricks? Did they get reinforcements?

Suddenly all crossbow fire ceased and a scrap of cloth tied to a scabbard waved over the boulders. The Elvish archers had already put five arrows through it by the time Taranquil snapped out of it and ordered: “Cease fire!! For now,” he added, quieter. “Are they surrendering? Well, well…” The scrap waved for a short while longer and then the amazed Elves beheld scout Edoret, alive and well, sword in hand. “Come over, now!”

“…Where’s the rest of them?” Taranquil inquired after checking out the natural fort. There were six crossbows in the gaps between the boulders but only two corpses (dressed in Mordorian uniform without insignia, but neither one an Orc by appearance; one with an arrow in his eye, the other with half his head taken off by Edoret’s sword).

“I don’t know, sir,” the scout replied, abandoning the flask proffered by one of his comrades and grudgingly ending his saga of how he, no doubt protected by Ulmo and Oromë themselves, managed to crawl to the enemy shore some three hundred yards downstream, crept through the forest and attacked the enemy from the rear. “There were six of them at first, but by the time I got to this nest there was only one bird in it,” Edoret nodded at the half-headed corpse, “he was firing all the crossbows in turn. I think that the others have retreated, sir – they were almost out of arrows. Shall we pursue?”

…When the rider from the ford caught up with Grizzly’s team (this was the unheard-of reward for the first man to be wounded – to immediately carry the news), they were having a quick rest stop in a large heather field, which abound here at the edge of the Mirkwood in the Brown Lands. The lieutenant listened to the dispatch silently and his face thawed a little for the first time in three days – so far everything was going as he expected. So the Elves did send only about a hundred hunters after them, the rest being stuck fast at Dol Guldur… less however many the crossbowmen will get at that mad creek – you really can’t know where you’ll gain and where you’ll lose. The most important thing is that if my boys manage to hold out for at least a couple of hours (which they will, there’s no doubt of that now), then we’ll join His Majesty’s forces tonight: they had to have received messages already and even now must be on a forced march to our rescue. Watch out, Firstborn! Did we really make it?

I wonder where we should set up the new Weapon Monastery – perhaps indeed in Mordor? Wait, what am I saying – after the Gondorian army gets involved, even the densest of these smart guys will wise up. On the other hand, maybe that’s for the best – where’re they to go now? Guys, you’ve been serving the enemy for quite a while now – want us to turn you over to the Resistance with appropriate explanations? No? Sure they’ll keep working on the Weapon of Vengeance for us. Well, that’s all in the future; right now my job is to deliver all escorted persons safe and sound and let the commanders sort it all out. Really, who would’ve thought that all those Jageddins and such would become the greatest treasure of the Crown? Well, we won’t be unemployed, either – these guys take a lot of looking after.

Imagine, they did figure out how to turn those stupid ‘flying drops’ into real weapons. That the drops’ accuracy would improve dramatically if they were made to spin in flight like an arrow was fairly obvious, but how do you make the damn jar spin along its axis? They have tried attaching spiral wings to it after the manner of arrow fletching – total failure. Then someone recalled the ‘ring of fire’ – a kind of fireworks they had in Barad-Dur – a light ring on an axis spun by powder -filled cylinders attached to it tangentially. So they married this toy to the ‘drop’ by drilling several channels sideways through the sides of the jar’s mouth where the flame exits, and the flying jar spun like a charm.

It is the description of this particular invention that Wolverine is now carrying in his backpack on his escape through Mirkwood. Well, he’s an old hand at this, the forest is home to him, he should make it. Once he finds the boat with a stock of food hidden in the reeds, he can make his getaway good. It’s a long way to Minas Tirith and he will only be able to sail at night, but it’d make no sense to hurry at this point. So even if their group doesn’t make it, His Majesty will acquire a fabulous new weapon!

A lookout interrupted his musings: “Lieutenant, sir! There’s a rider up ahead, going at full speed!”

When the lieutenant recognized the man who had dismounted near the head of the group, he did not believe his eyes at first and then broke into a decidedly non-regulation grin: the Old Man brought help all by himself, rather than trusting somebody else – a real father to the troops!

“Hail, Captain!”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Cheetah saluted curtly. His grey cloak (maybe one of those they wore at the Field of Pelennor?) and the exhausted horse were all splattered with road mud. “Make a defensive perimeter – the Elves will be here in a quarter of an hour.”

“How many?”

“About two hundred. They’ve crossed over into the northern Brown Lands the day before yesterday, took the highway and are now coming to meet you.” “I see,” Grizzly mumbled, remembering with a sudden clarity his moment of relaxation ten minutes ago: did we really make it? Should’ve knocked on wood – my dumb head, for example.

“Captain, you see how many men I have… we can’t hold out until the main force arrives.”

“What main force, Lieutenant? There is no main force.”

“But you…” was all Grizzly could say.