The Last Ringbearer

Chapter 55

Mirkwood, near Dol-Guldur

June 5, 3019

“That’s a fresh print, very fresh…” Runcorn mumbled under his breath. He dropped to one knee and, without looking back, signaled Haladdin who was walking some fifteen yards behind to get off the path. Tzerlag, who brought up the rear, overtook the obediently yielding doctor, and now both sergeants were engaged in an elaborate scout ritual by a small spot of wet clay, trading quiet phrases in Common. Haladdin’s opinion did not interest the rangers at all, of course; not even the Orocuen’s thoughts counted for much in that discussion: the scouts have already worked out a pecking order. The erstwhile enemies – the Ithilien ranger and the platoon leader of the Cirith Ungol Rangers – treated each other with exaggerated respect (like, for example, a master goldsmith and a master swordsmith might), but the desert is the desert, and the forest is the forest. Both professionals knew the limits of their expertise very well. The Ithilien ranger had spent his entire life in these forests.

…Back then he still walked upright and with shoulders squared (the right one was not yet higher than the left one), while his face was yet free of a badly healed purple scar; he was handsome, brave, and lucky, with his bottle-green Royal Forester uniform fitting him like a glove – in other words, a serious threat to womankind. The local peasants disliked him, which he considered normal: villeins only like accommodating foresters, whereas Runcorn took his service with all the seriousness of youth. Being a King’s man, he could disregard the local landlords; he quickly put their courts, which used to visit the royal forests like their own larder under his predecessor, in their place. Everybody knew the story of Eggy the Chicken Hawk’s band that had wandered into their country once – Runcorn did away with those guys all by himself, not deigning to wait for the sheriff’s men to pry their behinds off the benches of the Three Pint Tavern. To sum it up, the neighbors treated the young forester with cautious respect but not much sympathy, which he did not care much for anyway. He was used to being by himself since he was a child, and socialized with the Forest way more than with his peers. The Forest was everything to him: playmate, interlocutor, mentor, eventually becoming his Home. Some people even claimed that he had in him the blood of the woodwoses – forest demons from the ominous Druadan Dell. Well, people in remote forest villages say all sorts of things during chilly fall evenings, when only the feeble light of a splinter keeps the ancient evils from getting out of the dark corners…

To top it all off, at one point Runcorn stopped showing up at village festivities (to acute disappointment of all eligible maidens in the vicinity) and instead hung out at a tumbledown shack at the edge of Druadan, where an old medicine woman from the far north (maybe as far as Angmar) had settled some time before with her granddaughter Lianica. Manwe only knows what such an eligible bachelor saw in that puny freckled girl; many supposed that witchcraft was involved – the old woman certainly knew some spells and could heal with herbs and laying of hands, which was her livelihood. Lianica was known to talk to birds and beasts in their language and could have a ferret and a mouse sit together in the palm of her hand. This rumor may have owed to the fact that she avoided people (as opposed to forest animals) so much that she was originally thought to be dumb. The local beauties, when someone would mention the forester’s strange choice, only snorted: “Whatever. Maybe they’ll make a good couple.”

It did look like they would have, but it was not to be. One day the girl ran into the young landlord, out with his company to hunt and ‘improve the serfs’ blood line a bit;’ those exploits of his have even caused some of his neighboring landlords to grumble: “Really, young sir, this propensity of yours to screw everything that moves…” It was a routine matter, nothing to get excited about, really. Who’d’ve thought that the fool girl would drown herself, as if something precious had been taken away from her? No, guys, it really is true that all northerners are nuts.

Runcorn buried Lianica alone – the old woman could not bear the loss of her granddaughter and passed away two days later without regaining consciousness. The neighbors came to the cemetery mostly to check whether the forester would put a black-feathered arrow on the grave, signifying an oath of vengeance. But no, he did not risk that. Nor was that a surprise; sure, he’s the King’s man, but the King is far, while the landlord’s company (eighteen thugs, gallows material all) is right here. Still, the guy turned out to be weaker than we first thought… So did those villagers who bet on Runcorn’s vengeance (two- or even three-to- one) grumble in the Three Pint Tavern, sourly counting out the coins they have lost onto the sticky tables.

However, the young lord was of a different opinion – he was exceedingly prudent in all matters that did not involve his passion for ‘pink meat.’ The forester did not strike him as a man who would either let such a thing pass or go to court and write petitions (which amounted to the same thing). That sprightly peasant girl upon whom he bestowed his favor in the forest despite her objections (damn, the bitten finger still hurts)… To be honest, had he known that a man such as Runcorn was courting her, he would’ve simply passed by, especially seeing as the girl turned out to be nothing much. But what’s done is done. Comparing his impressions with those of the company leader, the landlord knew that the absence of a black arrow meant only that Runcorn was not one for theatrical gestures and cared little for the gawkers’ opinions. A serious man who needed to be dealt with seriously… That same night the forester’s house was set afire from all four sides. The arsonists propped the door shut with a large beam; when a man’s shadow appeared in the fire-lit attic window, arrows flew from the darkness below; after that, no one tried to escape the burning hut.

A King’s forester burned alive was no stinking serf that managed to get run over by a landlord’s horse; no cover-up was possible. Although…

“Everybody here thinks it was the poachers, sir. The late forester, gods rest his soul, was real hard on them, so they struck back. A really sad story… More wine?” The young landlord addressed those words to the court’s magister from Harlond, who had stopped at his hospitable manor.

“Yes, please! A wonderful claret, haven’t had its like for a while,” the magister, a dumpy sleepy old man with a nimbus of silver hair around a pink bald spot, nodded courtly. For a long time he admired the flames in the fireplace through the wine in a thin Umbarian glass, and then raised his faded blue eyes – piercing icicles, not sleepy at all – at his host.

“By the way, that drowned girl – one of your serfs?”

“What drowned girl?”

“Why, do they drown themselves every other day here?”

“Oh, that one… No, she was from the north somewhere. Is it important?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” The magister again raised the glass to eye level and said thoughtfully: “Your estate, young sir, is very well-kept – an example for all landlords in this area. I figure at least two and a half hundred marks in annual rents, right?”

“A hundred fifty,” the landlord lied smoothly and caught his breath: praise Eru, the conversation is turning to real business. “About a half goes to taxes, plus there’re the mortgages…”

Poachers, you say? All right, poachers it is. A suitable candidate was soon found; after some time on a rack above a censer the man made the appropriate confession and was duly impaled on a stake, as a lesson to the other serfs. The court magister departed to town, tenderly hugging to his side a money bag with a hundred eighty silver marks… All set? Right!..

From the very beginning the landlord was troubled by the absence of any bones in the rubble of Runcorn’s house. The company leader, who had personally commanded that operation, tried to calm his boss down: the house was large, with a wooden rather than earthen floor, the fire had burned for more than an hour, so the corpse must have burned to cinders, this does happen often. However, the young lord, being (as already mentioned) prudent beyond his years in nearly all matters, ordered his men to examine the location once again. His worst suspicions came true: the forester, who had had his share of surprises, was prudent, too, with a thirty-yard tunnel leading from the basement outside. There were a few fresh blood spots on the tunnel floor – one of the arrows had found its mark that night.

“Find him!” the young lord ordered – quietly, but in a tone of voice that made his hastily assembled henchmen break out in goose bumps. “It’s us or him, no going back. So far, Oromë be praised, he’s licking his wounds somewhere in the forest. If he escapes, I’m a dead man, but you will all die before me, I promise.”

The landlord took personal charge of the hunt, declaring that he would not rest until he sees Runcorn’s corpse with his own eyes. The fugitive’s tracks led inside the forest and were clearly readable throughout the day; the man had not bothered to conceal them, apparently assuming that he was believed dead. Closer to evening the company leader found a cocked crossbow hidden in the bushes by the path; more precisely, the crossbow was found later, after its bolt had already buried itself in the leader’s gut. While the henchmen bickered around the wounded man, another arrow whistled in from somewhere, taking a man in the neck. Runcorn gave himself away thereby – his silhouette showed briefly between the trees some thirty yards away down the dale, and they all chased him down a narrow clearing between the bushes. That was the idea: to get them all to run without looking down. As a result, three men wound up in the pit, more than he expected. Eggy the Chicken Hawk’s bandits have crafted it with skill and care: eight feet deep with sharp stakes at the bottom, smeared with rotten meat to guarantee a blood poisoning at the very least.

Twilight fell, and the gloom deepened. The landlord’s men were very cautious now, moving along in pairs; when they finally spotted Runcorn in the bushes, they showered him with arrows from twenty yards away. Alas, when they approached (right in the path of a five- hundred-pound log that dropped from a nearby tree), they found only a roll of bark dressed in some rags. Only then did the landlord realize that even just getting away from Eggy’s forest stronghold where this damned wos had so expertly lured them would be very difficult: the night forest around them was chock-full of deadly traps, and their four wounded (not to mention two dead) have robbed their company of mobility. Another thing he understood now was that their overwhelming numerical superiority was of no consequence in this situation and the role of prey was theirs at least until dawn.

Chapter 56

They set up a defense perimeter in a worst possible location – an overgrown dale with zero visibility – because moving elsewhere was even more dangerous. There was not even a suggestion to light a fire, they were afraid to even talk, much less expose themselves to light. Even the wounded had to be tended to in pitch-black darkness. Gripping their bows and swords, the lord’s men stared and listened to the moonless night, firing at every rustle and every suggestion of movement in the fog rising from rotting leaves. It ended with someone losing his cool at about two in the morning: the idiot yelled “Woses!” and sank an arrow into his neighbor, who had just gotten up to stretch his numb legs; then he ran inside the perimeter, crashing through the bushes. The worst thing that can happen in a nightly battle happened then: the perimeter fell apart and everyone ran around in the dark shooting at everybody else, every man for himself.

This was no accident, though: the ‘someone’ who caused the free-for-all with a shot at his comrade was none other than Runcorn. The forester had appropriated the cloak of one of the dead (who were left unguarded), blended in with the lord’s men as they were setting up their defense, and waited. He certainly had a hundred opportunities to put an arrow into the landlord and vanish into darkness in the ensuing chaos – but in his judgment the man did not deserve such an easy death, so he had other plans.

Only at dawn did the outcome of the fight become clear to the hapless hunters – they lost two more men and the landlord himself vanished without a trace. Supposing that he got lost in the night scuffle and secreted himself in the dark (which is the correct solution: only a total idiot would run headlong through the night forest; a thinking person would hide quietly under a bush until someone trips over him), the fighters started combing the forest, calling on their lord. They found him a couple of miles away, guided by the cackling of crows. The young lord was tied to a tree, his genitals sticking out of his mouth – “choked on his balls,” as the serfs later said in relish.

The entire local population joined in the hunt for the evildoer with gusto, but they might as well have been trying to capture an echo. The former royal forester’s career had only one possible direction now – a life of robbery and death at the hands of the law. Wounded in a fight with the sheriff of Harlond’s men, broken on the rack, Runcorn was about to grace the local gallows when Baron Grager rode into town looking to recruit reinforcements for the decimated Ithilien regiment. “I’ll take this one,” said the baron in approximately the tone of a housewife picking out a cut of ham at the butcher’s (“…and slice it thin!”); the sheriff could only grit his teeth.

The war beyond Osgiliath was going so-so; the Ithilien regiment fought noticeably better than any other unit and, as is customary, was the last one to be replenished. In general reinforcements were hard to come by (the folks at Minas Tirith who screamed the loudest about the ‘need to free Middle Earth from the eastern darkness once and for all’ have all suddenly developed pressing business on this side of the Anduin, whereas the plain folk never cared for the War of the Ring to begin with), so the special dispensation that Faramir had bargained for – ‘even right off the gallows’ – had to be used quite frequently. Grager himself was walking in the gallows’ shadow, but the reach of the courts of Gondor was too short to grab a front-line officer in wartime.

The regiment’s physician had to expend a mountain of effort to turn the bag of bones Grager had extracted from the Harlond jail into a semblance of a man, but the famous robber was worth it. Runcorn could not shoot a bow like he used to (his mangled shoulder joint had forever lost flexibility), but he remained an excellent scout, and his experience with traps and other forest warfare tricks was truly priceless. He finished the war with the rank of sergeant, then participated under his lieutenant’s command in freeing and elevating Faramir to the throne of Ithilien, and was just about to start building himself a home – somewhere far from people, in the Otter Creek dell, say – when His Highness the Prince of Ithilien invited him over. Would he kindly agree to accompany two of his guests north, to Mirkwood?

“I’m no longer in service, my Captain, and charity is not my business.” “That’s exactly what I need – a man not in my service. Nor is this charity, they’re prepared to pay well. Name your price, Sergeant.” “Forty silver marks,” Runcorn said out of the blue, just to get them off his back. But the wiry hook-nosed Orc (who seemed to be the leader) only nodded: “Done,” and undid the money bag with Elvish embroidery. When a handful of assorted gold coins appeared on the table (Haladdin had long wondered where Eloar might have gotten the Vendotenian nyanmas or the square chengas from the Noon Islands), the ranger could no longer back out gracefully.

Runcorn took responsibility for all preparations for the trip to Dol Guldur, so Haladdin and Tzerlag enjoyed a total lack thereof. The scout tried the leather ichigas bought for them with obvious anxiety (the Orocuen did not trust any footwear without a hard sole), but he really liked the ponyagas the locals used instead of rucksacks. These rigid frames of two bird-cherry arcs conjoined at a straight angle (the wood is bent right after cutting and becomes bone-hard when it dries) allow one to carry a lumpy hundred-pound load without worrying about fitting it to one’s back.

To the doctor’s mild surprise the Orocuen decided to move from Emyn Arnen’s guest quarters where the prince had put them to the barrack of Faramir’s personal guard for the duration. “I’m a simple man, sir, I’m like a fly in honey amidst all this luxury. It’s bad for the fly and bad for the honey.” He showed up at breakfast the next day sporting a large shiner but quite pleased with himself. It turned out that the Ithilienians, who had heard tell of the sergeant’s exploits on the night of the prince’s escape, prodded him into challenging the two best hand-to-hand fighters they had. Tzerlag won one fight and lost (or, perhaps, had the smarts to lose) the other to complete satisfaction of all involved. Now even the Orocuen’s dislike for beer, uncovered during long evening jaw sessions, met with the rangers’ understanding: a competent man within his rights. What’s the drink you got over there – kumiss? Sorry, man, no deliveries this year… One day Haladdin visited the barrack to talk to his companion and noted how a lively conversation in Common died down the moment he showed up and an awkward silence reigned – the learned doctor was nothing but a hindrance to farmers’ sons finally free of the necessity to shoot each other, a boss.

Since they did not know who was in charge in the Brown Lands on the left bank of the Anduin, they chose a water route. They sailed all the way to the Falls of Rauros (about two- thirds of the trip), helped by the strong even south wind that blows throughout the valley of the Great River at that time of year. From there they had to use light dugouts. Haladdin and Tzerlag spent that part of the journey as cargo: “You don’t know the River, so the best you can do for the company is keep your asses glued to the bottom of the boat and make no sudden movements.” On June 2nd the expedition reached the North Undeep, a twist in the river right before the mouth of Limlight river originating from Fangorn. The Enchanted Forests began here – Lórien on the right bank, Mirkwood on the left; that left less than sixty miles to Dol Guldur as the crow flies. Faramir’s men remained behind to guard the boats (on the Rohan bank, just in case), while the three of them reached the jagged black-green wall of Mirkwood firs the next day.

This forest was completely unlike the sun- and life-filled groves of Ithilien: complete absence of undergrowth and bush made it resemble a colonnade of some mammoth temple. Silence reigned under its ceiling, as a thick carpet of acrid-green moss, dotted here and there by little whitish flowers that resembled potato sprouts, swallowed all sound. This stillness and the greenish twilight made for a perfect illusion of being under water, further enhanced by ‘seaweed’ – unappetizing hoary beards of lichen hanging off fir branches. Not a ray of sunlight, not a breath of a breeze – Haladdin physically felt the pressure of a thick sheet of water. The trees were enormous, their true size given away only by the fallen trunks; these were impossible to climb over, so they had to go around them anywhere from a hundred to hundred fifty feet in either direction. Larger patches of storm-felled trees were completely impassable and had to be circumvented. The insides of those trunks were carved out by huge palm-sized ants that fiercely attacked anyone who dared touch their abode. Twice they came across relatively fresh human skeletons; graceful coal-black butterflies swarmed noiselessly over the bones, and this was scary enough for even the jaded Orocuen to make the sign of an Eye. Packs of werewolves and wheel-sized spiders turned out to be fairy tales: the forest did not deign to actively oppose Man, being absolutely alien to him, like the ocean expanse or the cold fire of Ephel Dúath glaciers; the forest’s power expressed itself in alienation and rejection, rather than confrontation, which is why forester Runcorn felt it most acutely. It was this power that Dol Guldur had been gathering inside its charmed stones over the ages, century after century, drop by drop. The three magic fastnesses – Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, Minas Morgul by the Cirith Ungol pass, and Ag-Jakend amidst the lifeless high mountain plateau called Shurab in northern Khand – enclosed Mordor in a protective triangle fed by the ancient power of the forest, the light of mountain snow, and the silence of the desert. The Nazgúl that had erected these magical ‘resonators’ made them look like fortresses in order to conceal their true purpose; one supposes that they must have had a good laugh watching yet another Western general wander the cracked stones of Dol Guldur’s courtyards, trying to locate any sign of a garrison that had just engaged his soldiers. (This trick was last used two months ago: the ‘shadow garrison’ had distracted the Elves and the Esgaroth militia for almost two weeks, allowing the real North Army to retreat to Morannon almost without casualties.) Only the castle’s dungeons were off limits to everyone, protected by clear warnings in Common chiseled into the walls.

…The discussion on the path was becoming more protracted. Haladdin took down his ponyaga (as usual, the first sensation was an illusion of blissfully floating on air, quickly replaced by the accumulated weariness of the march) and approached the rangers. Both sergeants looked worried: they have been walking paths through deep forest, avoiding the road joining Dol Guldur to Morannon, and yet the scouts constantly felt human presence even in these enchanted thickets. And now this: fresh bootprints of a Mordorian infantryman… yet Sharya-Rana had mentioned no Mordorian forces near the fortress.

“Perhaps deserters from the North Army back then?”

“Unlikely…” Tzerlag scratched his head. “Any deserter would’ve fled these parts immediately, anywhere’s better than here. This one is stationed somewhere nearby: judging by the depth of the print, he’s carrying no load.”

“Strange tracks,” Runcorn confirmed, “the soldiers of your North Army have to have worn- out boots, but these look like they’re fresh from the warehouse. Look how sharp the edge is.”

“How do you know that these are Mordorians?”

The scouts traded slightly offended looks. “Well, the height of the heel, the shape of the toe…”

“That’s not what I mean. Tzerlag and I here are wearing ichigas – so what?”

There was a brief silence. “Damn. Yeah, that’s true, but why?”

There was, indeed, no sense to it, and the decision Haladdin made suddenly was totally irrational – a stab in the dark. Strictly speaking, it was not even his decision; rather, some unseen power ordered him to go ahead. When this happens, you either obey or quit the game.

“All right, here’s what we’ll do. As I understand it, it’s less than a dozen miles to Dol Guldur. We will go to the road now, where you will camp and I’ll continue to the fortress alone. If I’m not back in three days, I’m dead and you’re to go back. Do not approach the fortress under any circumstances. Any circumstances, understand?”

“Are you crazy, sir?” the Orocuen piped up.

“Sergeant Tzerlag,” he had never even suspected himself to be capable of such a tone, “do you understand your orders?”

“Yeah…” the man hesitated, but only for a second. “Yes, Field Medic Second Class, sir!”

“Wonderful. I need to have some sleep and a good think about what I’m going to tell these guys in brand-new boots, should they be in charge at the fortress. Who I am, where have I been all these months, how did I get here, and all that… why I’m shod in ichigas – no detail is too small.”

Chapter 57

Kumai turned the rudder, and the glider hung motionlessly in the sky, resting its widespread wings on empty air with ease and confidence. You could see all of Dol Guldur plainly from here, with all its decorative bastions and battlements, the central donjon (all workshops now), and the thread of the road winding between heather-covered hillocks. He scanned the environs and grinned contentedly: hiding their ‘Weapon Monastery’ here in the boonies, right under the Lórien Elves’ noses, was a brilliantly impudent undertaking. Many of the colleagues gathered under the roof of the magic fortress were unsettled (some had constant nightmares, others developed strange ailments), but Trolls are thick-skinned, phlegmatic, and believe neither dreams nor signs, so the engineer felt great here and worked day and night.

Formally their chief was Jageddin – the famed master of chemistry, optics, and electrical mechanics from the Barad-Dur University – but the real master here was Commandant Grizzly, who really did resemble a huge gray bear from the wooded foothills of the Northeast; none of them knew his real name or his rank in the Secret Service. Kumai could not even figure out his race; maybe one of the northern Trolls that used to live in the Misty Mountains before melting into Dungarians and Angmarians?

Kumai met the commandant immediately upon his arrival at the fortress (the Superintendant’s people got him there in stages along the Dol Guldur highway – they turned out to have a regular route there, moving convoys almost every other day). Grizzly interrogated him for several hours, going through Kumai’s entire life history; about the only thing he did not ask him about were his first girlfriend’s sexual tastes. Childhood, school, military service; names, dates, specifications of flying machines, the habits of his university friends, descriptions of supervisors in his father’s mines, and the sequence of traditional toasts at Trollish feasts… “You say that on the day of your first flight, May 3rd 3014, the sky was overcast. Are you sure?.. What’s the name of the bartender at Achigidel Bar, across from the University? Oh yes, right, that bar is a block away down the boulevard… Engineer First Class Shagrat from your regiment – is he tall, hunched over, with a limp? Oh, stocky and no limp…” Any fool could see that this was a verification procedure, but why so thorough? When Kumai mentioned a detail of his escape from Mindolluin, Grizzly made a face: “Didn’t they tell you that this is a forbidden topic?”

“But…” the engineer was surprised, “I didn’t think that this ban applies to you, too…”

“Were you told of any exceptions?”

“No… Sorry.”

“Get used to it. Very well, you’ve passed this test. Have some tea.” With those words the commandant moved a large round teapot with a chipped spout and a Khandian tea bowl of finest beige porcelain and unimaginable provenance towards Kumai and got busy studying the list of necessary supplies the mechanic had put together (bamboo, balsa wood, Umbarian sailcloth – a panoply of stuff, no doubt to be augmented later). “By the way, your former colleagues, like Master Mhamsuren… would it appreciably help your work to have them here?”

“Of course!.. But is such a thing possible?”

“There’s nothing impossible for our Service, but you need to remember everything you can about these people – their looks, distinctive features, friends, relatives, habits. Every little thing helps, so please work your memory.”

Another half an hour later the commandant lightly slapped a stack of fresh handwritten sheets and summarized: “If they’re alive, we’ll find them,” and Kumai felt with certainty – these guys will.

“Please change, Engineer Second Class.” Grizzly glanced towards a brand-new Mordorian uniform without any insignia (everyone here was dressed that way – Jageddin’s scientists, service staff, and the silent Secret Service guards). “I’ll show you our physical plant.”

The ‘physical plant’ turned out to be large and diverse. For example, Kumai saw an excellent glider of a type he had never seen before: the ten-yard wings, straight and narrow like an Elvish blade, seemed to stretch over almost nothing – some improbable material, lighter than balsa and stronger than stone chestnut. The ‘soft’ catapult used to launch the glider was a proper match – say what you want, guys, but there are no such materials in nature! Only then did the mechanic realize that this was the famed Dragon of the Nazgúl, whose range was limited only by how long the pilot could stay aloft without a break. Kumai mastered the art of flying the Dragon easily – the better a machine is, the easier it is to control.

Four Isengard ‘blasting fire’ experts arrived at Dol Guldur at about the same time; that was the powder-like incendiary mix resembling that long used in Mordor for festive fireworks. A short wiry man with slightly bowed legs, named Wolverine and resembling a Dungar mountain man, was the Isengardians’ escort; he became Grizzly’s stand-in when the commandant had to leave the fortress on his secret business. The Mordorian engineers were skeptical at first: the drop-shaped stubby-winged ceramic jars loaded with ‘blasting fire’ (soon known as simply powder) did have a range of almost two miles, but their accuracy stank – plus or minus two hundred yards. Also, one time a ‘flying drop’ exploded right in the firing channel, killing a worker who happened to be nearby. After learning from the Isengardians that such things happened – “not all the time, mind you, but yeah, it happens” – the Mordorians traded meaningful looks: to hell with this ‘blasting fire,’ guys, it’s more dangerous to friend than foe.

Yet not three days after the accident the catapult drivers asked Grizzly to attend a test firing of a new kind of shell. The first shot from the usual three hundred yards blew eight targets to shreds; the new shell was just a hollow ceramic ball filled with powder and cut-up nails, set off with a fire cord used for naphtha bombs. The next step was obvious: put the jar of powder inside a larger one filled with fire jelly, which you get by dissolving soap in the lighter fraction of naphtha, so that the explosion flings sticky incendiary fluff in all directions. Grizzly examined the thirty-yard circle of earth scorched down to the mineral layer and turned to Jageddin in amazement: “All that done by a single jar? Congratulations, guys: finally you’ve come up with something worthwhile!”

That was when Kumai had the thought that one could not only sling such shells – whether incendiary or shrapnel ones – from catapults, but also drop them from gliders. “This makes no sense,” was the objection, “how many sorties can you fly during a battle? Two? Three? It’s not worth it.” “Yes, sure, if all you do is simply drop shells anywhere on the enemy’s army. But if you hit milord Aragorn together with milord Mithrandir, it’s quite worthwhile.” “You think you can hit them?” “Sure, why not? Rather than hit a man, I’d have to hit within fifteen yards of a man.” “Isn’t that kinda… you know… ignoble?” “Wha-a-a-at?!” “No, nothing… The old knightly wars – ‘are you ready, fair sir?’ – are anyway all done with. As the One is my witness, we didn’t start this.”

It did look like the ‘noble war’ was to be no more. For example, the Mordorian engineers have made serious strides in improving the crossbow – the weapon that had always been under an unspoken ban in Middle Earth. (“Why do you think the noble knights hate the crossbow so much? It looks personal, doesn’t it?” “Sure, we’ve all heard it: a distance weapon is a coward’s weapon.” “No, man, this is more complicated. Note that no one objects to bows much. The thing is that the best bow develops at most a hundred force- pounds at the bowstring, while a crossbow does a thousand.” “So what?” “So an archer can only bring down an armored knight if he hits him in the visor or an armor joint, which is a high art – you gotta start learning at three and maybe you’ll be some good by the age of twenty. Whereas a crossbowman just shoots at the target and the bolt goes right through wherever it hits. Which means that after a month’s training a fifteen-year-old journeyman who’s never held a weapon before can wipe his nose on his sleeve, take aim from a hundred yards, and goodbye to the famed Baron N, winner of forty-two tournaments, and so forth… You know how they say in Umbar: the One created weak and strong people, and the inventor of the crossbow made them equal? So now these strong people are mad at the demise of the high art of combat!” “Yep. What’s more, the taxed estates are beginning to scratch their heads: what do we need all those fancy boys for, with all their coats of arms, plumages, and all the rest? If it’s to protect the Motherland, perhaps crossbowmen will be cheaper?” “You’re so down-to-earth practical, brother!” “I guess I am. Plus I’m too dumb to figure out why it’s noble to knock someone’s brains out with a sword but dishonorable to do it with a crossbow bolt.”)

But the steel crossbows with ‘distance glasses,’ the ‘flying drops,’ even incendiary shells dropped from the sky paled next to their unseen commanders’ recent demand via Grizzly: there are several well-known gorges in the Misty Mountains where cracks in the rocks emit a fog that quickly dissipates into still air. The few who managed to escape these gorges told that the moment you breathe this fog you taste a revolting sweetness, and then drowsiness hits you like an avalanche. The myriad animal skeletons littering the slopes testify to how this drowsiness ends. You’re supposed to find a way to direct such fog at the enemy.

Kumai was a man of discipline, but this idea made him nauseous: to poison the very air – some weapon of vengeance! Thank the One that he’s a mechanic rather than a chemist and will not have to be involved in this particular project.

…He dropped two large stones from a hundred feet (same weight as the explosive shells; they hit right next to the targets) and set the glider down right on the highway about a mile and a half from Dol Guldur, near where the road emptied into the gloomy canyon it had washed through Mirkwood after cutting through the sickly ruddiness of the heather expanses like a white scar. He got out of the cockpit and sat on the side of the road, glancing impatiently in the direction of the fortress. Soon someone will be here with the horses, and he’ll attempt to launch the Dragon right from the ground, towed by a brace of horses, like they used to do with the old gliders. Where’re those guys already?..

Since Kumai was mostly looking towards Dol Guldur, he only saw the man walking the road from the direction of Mirkwood when he was about thirty yards away. Looking at the newcomer, the Troll first shook his head: no way! Then he sprinted towards the man head over heels and had him in a bear hug a moment later.

“Easy, big guy, you’ll break my ribs!”

“I have to know if you’re a ghost!.. When did they find you?”

“A while ago. Listen, first things first: Sonya is alive and well, she’s with the Resistance in the Ash Mountains…”

Haladdin listened to Kumai’s tale, staring at the busy milling of the earth bees over the heather flowers. Yeah, abandoned ruins with real hiding places, far from human habitation, where a normal person would never go… leave it to the Nazgúl to hide a palantír in such a hornet’s nest. I’m really lucky to have been intercepted before I had the chance to foist my clumsy story on a couple of intelligence professionals. I can’t tell Grizzly and Wolverine the truth, either. Just imagine this picture. Some field medic, second class, shows up at their super-extra-secret Weapon Monastery: hi, guys, I’m only here to pick up a palantír and go right back to Prince Faramir in Ithilien. I’m working for the Order of the Nazgúl, but the one who empowered me died on the spot, so no one can corroborate this fact. I can show you a Nazgúl ring as proof, but it’s magic-free… Yeah, a real pretty picture. They’ll probably peg me as a psycho, not even a spy. They’ll probably let me into the castle (poison experts aren’t common) but they won’t let me out – I myself wouldn’t have… Hey, wait a minute!..

“Halik, wake up! You all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right, sorry. I just had an idea. You see, I’m here on a special mission that has nothing to do with your Weapon Monastery… Have you ever heard of these rings?”

Kumai weighed the ring on his palm and whistled respectfully. “Inoceramium?”

“The same.”

“Do you mean to say…”

“I do. Engineer Second Class Kumai!”

“Sir!”

“In the name of the Order of the Nazgúl, will you follow my orders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mind that your superiors in Dol Guldur must not know anything about this.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?!”

“Kumai, my friend… I have no right to tell you what this is about, but I swear by everything that’s dear, I swear by Sonya’s life: this is the only thing that can still save our Middle Earth. It’s your choice. If I come to Grizzly, he’ll surely want to verify my credentials. It’ll be weeks if not months while his superiors contact mine, and in the meantime it will be all over. You think the Nazgúl are all-powerful? Like hell! They didn’t even tell me about these Secret Service games at Dol Guldur, most likely because they themselves didn’t know.”

“Yeah, that’s no wonder,” Kumai grumbled. “When you add secrecy to our usual chaos, there’s no verifying anything.”

“So will you do it?”

“I will.”

“Then listen and remember. There’s a fireplace in the Great Hall which has a six-sided stone in its rear wall…”

Chapter 58

Ithilien, Emyn Arnen

July 12, 3019

There’s no harder work than waiting – this saying might as well be cast in bronze for its resistance to wear. It is even harder when waiting is your only work after everything else possible had been done and you only have to wait for the curtain signal – and wait and wait, day in and day out, for a signal that may never come at all, for this is already outside your control, with other Powers in charge.

Involuntarily idle at Emyn Arnen after his Dol Guldur trip, Haladdin caught himself sincerely envying Tangorn at his deadly game in Umbar: even risking your life every day is better than such waiting. How did he curse himself for these thoughts when a week ago haggard Faramir handed him the mithril coat: “…his last words were: ‘done.’”

Their return from Dol Guldur also came to his mind frequently. This time they failed to sneak through: the fighters from Mordorian intelligence that were guarding the paths through Mirkwood against the Elves had picked up their scent and followed them inexorably, like wolves follow a wounded deer. Now he knows the exact price of his life: forty silver marks that he paid Runcorn; if not for the ranger’s skill, they would have most certainly stayed in Mirkwood to feed the black butterflies. They ran into a trap on the shore of Anduin; when arrows flew, it was too late to yell: “Guys, we’re friendlies from a different service!” Back there he had shot poisoned Elvish arrows at his own people, and there’s no cleansing from that…

Do you know what the saddest thing is, dear Dr. Haladdin? You’re now bound with blood and have lost the right to choose, the One’s biggest gift. You’ll now be forever haunted by the young men in Mordorian uniforms without insignia who fell in the reeds by the Anduin, and by Tangorn, sent to certain death. Now, the moment you drop the quest you’ll be nothing but a murderer and a traitor. You have to win to make these sacrifices worthwhile, but in order to win you have to walk over corpses and wade through unthinkable muck, again and again – a vicious circle. And the most horrid job is still ahead of you; that you’ll be doing it with another’s hands – those of Baron Grager – makes no difference. What was it Tangorn had said back then? “An honest division of labor: clean hands for the mastermind, clean conscience for the executor.” Like hell…

(Tangorn ran a grand rehearsal of the key scene before he left for Umbar and concluded dispassionately: “This won’t work. You give yourself away by every look and the very tone of your voice. One can tell that you’re lying from a mile away without being an Elf, who are a lot more perceptive than we are. Forgive me – I should’ve realized right away that you’re incapable of doing this. Even if they swallow my bait in Umbar you won’t be able to angle the fish here.”

“I will – I have to.” “No. Please don’t argue, I won’t be able to do it, either. It’s not enough to have nerves of steel to play this part convincingly knowing the full background; one has to be not even a bastard, but completely inhuman.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all, sir. Maybe you can become inhuman in time, but we have no time. The only solution is to use a cutout.”

“Use a what?”

“It’s our jargon. We need to involve an agent in the dark… sorry. In other words, the agent – an intermediary – has to believe that he’s telling the truth. Given who we’re dealing with, he has to be a top-notch professional.”

“You mean Baron Grager?”

“Hmm… As your sergeant would say: you get it, doc.”

“Under what pretext can we involve him?”

“The pretext is that we’re afraid that during negotiations the Elves will break into your brains with their magic or whatnot and turn the exchange into a robbery. Which is totally true, by the way. Plus it will be a little easier for you if you share this crock of shit with the baron. As the famous Su Vey Go used to say: ‘An honest division of labor: clean hands for the mastermind, clean conscience for the executor.’”

“Who was this Su Vey Go?”

“A spy, who else?”)

…The fish bit by the end of the eighty-third day of the hundred he had been allotted. The last rays of the setting sun pierced the echoing space of the Knights Hall, empty at this hour, casting orange spots on its far wall; the spots looked live and warm, seemingly trying to jump off the wall onto the face and hands of a slender girl in dusty man’s clothes, who chose to sit in Faramir’s armchair. She does look like a girl, Grager thought, although by human standards she looks about thirty, whereas it’s scary to even think about her real age. To say that she’s beautiful is to say nothing; one can describe great Alvendi’s Portrait of a Lovely Stranger in police search order terms, but should one? Interestingly, Doctor Haladdin predicted the identity and rank of the respondent like a lunar eclipse – truly excellent work – but didn’t seem at all happy about it; I wonder why?..

“Milady Eornis, on behalf of the Prince of Ithilien I welcome you to Emyn Arnen. I’m Baron Grager; perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Oh yes.” “Did Elandar send you Baron Tangorn’s message?” Eornis nodded, took out a simple silver ring covered with scuffed Elvish runes from some secret pocket and put it on the table before Grager.

“This was one of the rings in the seals of your package. It belonged to my son Eloar, who’s missing in action. You know something about his fate… did I understand your message correctly, Baron?”

Chapter 59

“Yes, milady, you did understand correctly. Let me dot the ‘i’s first: like my dead friend, I’m only an intermediary. There may be ways to search my brains with Elvish magic, but you won’t find anything there beyond what I’m about to tell you.”

“You all exaggerate Elvish powers…”

“So much the better. Anyway, your son is alive and in captivity. He will be returned to you once we agree on the price.”

“Oh, anything, anything at all – precious gems, Gondolin weapons, magic scrolls…”

“Alas, milady, his captors are not hostage-trading southern mashtangs – they seem to be of Mordor’s intelligence service.”

Her expression did not change, but her thin fingers went white in their grip on the armchair: “I will not betray my people for my son’s life!”

“Don’t you even want to know how little you’d have to do?”

After an eternity that lasted a couple of seconds she answered “I do,” and Grager, the veteran of a hundred recruitments, knew that the game was his – all that was left was the endgame, with an extra piece.

“Some preliminary explanations first. Eloar separated from his squad and got lost in the desert. He was dying of thirst when he was discovered, so the Mordorian insurgents saved his life first…”

“Saved his life? Those monsters?”

“Please, milady – all these stories about smoked human meat might impress the Shire yokels, but not me. I’ve fought the Orcs for four years and know the score: these guys have always admired brave foes and treated prisoners well – that’s a fact. The problem is that they’ve found out that your Eloar had participated in so-called mop-ups – that’s a euphemism for mass murders of civilians.”

“But that’s a lie!” “Unfortunately, it’s an honest truth,” Grager sighed tiredly. “It so happened that my late friend Baron Tangorn observed the work of Eloar’s Easterlings. I will spare your maternal feelings by not describing what he witnessed.”

“It’s some horrible mistake, I swear! My boy… Wait, did you just say ‘Easterlings?’ Perhaps he simply couldn’t restrain those savages…”

“Milady Eornis, a commander is as responsible for the actions of his subordinates as for his own. That’s how it is with Men, don’t know about Elves. Anyway, I’m only telling you this so that you understand that should we fail to agree on the price of his release, your son can’t place his hopes in the Convention on prisoners of war. He’ll be simply turned over to those whose relatives got ‘mopped up.’”

“What…” she swallowed convulsively, “what do I have to do?”

“First I’d like to clarify your position in Lórien’s hierarchy.”

“Don’t they know it?”

“They do, but only from Eloar, who may have been simply trying to impress them with his hostage value. They need to know how powerful you are: clofoel is a rank rather than a position, right? If you do unimportant things like bringing up princes or supervising ceremonies, they see no reason to deal with you.”

“I am the clofoel of the World.”

“Aha… meaning that in the Lady’s cabinet you’re in charge of diplomacy, intelligence, and, more broadly, Elvish expansion in Middle Earth?”

“Yes, you can put it that way. Are you satisfied with the extent of my power?”

“Yes, quite. To business, then. There’s a certain Mordorian prisoner of war in one of the Gondorian labor camps controlled by the Elves. You set up his escape and get your son back in exchange, that’s all. I do believe that you can put your conscience at ease as far as ‘betraying your people’ is concerned.”

“That’s because Lórien would never agree to such an exchange, since the prisoner is one of the royal dynasty of Mordor?”

“I will not comment on your guess, milady Eornis, since I don’t know myself. You’re right about one thing: should anyone in Lórien find out about our contact, it will cost both you and your son your heads.”

“Very well, I agree… But first I need to make sure that Eloar is, indeed, alive; the ring could’ve come from a corpse.”

“Fair enough; please examine this note.” (This was a key moment, although Grager did not know that. But Haladdin, had he the chance to see the stony-faced Elf-woman reading the jagged, as if scratched by a drunk, runes: dear mother I’m alive they treat me well – would have known right away that Maestro Haddami’s lengthy ‘getting into character’ process had not let them down.)

“What had these beasts done to him?!”

Grager opened his hands. “They say that he’s being kept in an underground prison, which isn’t exactly the groves of Lórien. So he’s not in the best shape.”

“What had they done to him?” she repeated quietly. “I won’t lift a finger until I have guarantees, you hear? I’ll turn all the labor camps upside down and…”

“You’ll get your guarantees, don’t worry. They haven’t started the whole thing with setting up a secret meeting to blow the prisoner exchange, right? They’ve even offered…” Grager made a dramatic pause. “Would you like to see him?”

“Is he here?!”

“No, that’d be asking too much. You can talk to him through Seeing Stones. At the time and day we agree upon – say, noon of August first, all right? – Eloar will look into the Mordorian palantír while you look into yours.”

Eornis shook her head. “We don’t have Seeing Stones in Lórien.”

Grager nodded. “They’re aware of that. To speed things up they’ve offered to lend you one of theirs. You’ll return it with the prisoner – what else could you do? But they, too, demand guarantees: there are ways to locate one palantír via another – you Elves should know them better than me – and they’re not about to reveal their location to the enemy. Therefore, there are two non-negotiable conditions. First, the palantír you get will be blinded by an impenetrable sack and put into ‘receive’ mode… forgive me, milady, I don’t understand any of this, I’m just parroting their instructions. So, you will take the palantír out of the sack and set it to ‘two-way’ mode only precisely at noon on August first. Should you dare do it earlier – to see how things are in Mordorian hideouts – then one of the things you’ll see will be Eloar’s execution. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Second, they demand that during this communication you must be far from Mordor, in Lórien. Therefore, on August first, when your palantír starts sending, they want to see in it something that can only be in Lórien… You know, at that point they’ve gotten really paranoid and we’ve spent almost half an hour figuring out some Lórien landmark that can’t be faked or mistaken for something else. Then someone remembered that your Lady has a huge magic crystal that shows the future; that’s just what we need, they said.”

“Galadriel’s Mirror?!”

“They called it something else, but I’m sure you know what they’re talking about.” “They have to be crazy! It’s unbelievably difficult to get access to the Lady’s Mirror.”

“Why crazy? That’s exactly what they’ve said: this will be her chance to prove her position in the hierarchy… So: on August first, at noon, you will take the palantír out of the sack and switch it from ‘receive’ to ‘two-way’ mode, and over in Mordor they will see Galadriel’s Mirror; then you’ll see your son, alive and well… relatively well, anyway. Then they’ll tell you who has to be rescued from which camp. All further communication will be conducted via the palantíri. Any objections?”

“This won’t work for us,” she said suddenly in a hollow voice; he immediately noted this ‘us’ – everything’s going smoothly.

“What’s the problem?”

“No magical objects may be brought into Lórien without the knowledge of the Star Council. The palantíri are charged with very powerful magic, so I won’t be able to smuggle one past the border guard.”

“They’ve heard of this ban, but does it apply even to a clofoel of the World?”

She smiled crookedly. “You don’t fully know Elvish customs. The ban applies to everyone, including both Sovereigns. The border guard obeys the clofoel of Tranquility and no one else.”

“Well, if the border guard are the only hitch, I’m glad to solve this small problem that you think insurmountable,” Grager said with calculated casualness. “The palantír will be smuggled to you directly in your capital, Caras Galadhon.”

“In Caras Galadhon?” she froze in amazement and Grager felt with his very gut that something was off.

You’re afraid, he realized, for the first time during this conversation you’re actually afraid. Why now, all of a sudden? Of course, learning that right in your own capital enemy spies can do things that you, an all-powerful royal minister, can’t do, has to be a shock. But the main thing is that this turn was a surprise to you, meaning that you have more or less anticipated the rest of our conversation after receiving Eloar’s ring… anticipated and set up a counter-game, which means that everything you’ve fed me so far was what you wanted me to believe, rather than your real feelings. I should’ve figured it out before: you broke and agreed to be recruited way too easily, and you had to know that this is a recruitment and you’ll be on the hook for the rest of your life – after all, we’re colleagues, in a manner of speaking… Sure, her son is in enemy’s hands and at risk of a grisly death, but still, she’s a courtier, which means she had to go through a helluva lot of intrigue and betrayal on her way to the clofoel’s chair, or whatever they sit on at that Star Council of theirs. It’s Haladdin’s decision, of course, but in his place I wouldn’t have trusted her with a penknife, much less a palantír. Betcha she’ll cheat the learned doctor like a little kid during the exchange. Then again, maybe she won’t… meaning she won’t be able to. The guy has his own aces up his sleeve: I’ve no idea how he’s going to get that crystal over to her in the Enchanted Forest, secretly, but I’m certain he’s not bluffing. “You’ve heard correctly, milady, in Caras Galadhon. You’re in charge of the Festival of the Dancing Fireflies this year, correct?”

Chapter 60

Lórien, Caras Galadhon

Night of July 22, 3019

The Elves consider the Festival of the Dancing Fireflies on the night of the July’s full moon to be one of their foremost holidays; thus an informed Lórienite can make important conclusions regarding the true situation among Lórien’s ruling elite, ‘never as united as now,’ from the identity of the person in charge and how that person goes about it. The tiniest details carry deep meaning, being a reflection of the nuances of the merciless struggle for power that is the only meaning of life for the immortal Elvish hierarchs. At the same time, a totally innocent detail (such as whether the Lord of Rivendell is represented at the Festival by a cousin or a nephew) can be much more important than, for example, the shocking re-appearance of milord Estebar, the former clofoel of Might who had disappeared without a trace some ten years ago together with the other participants in the Celebrant conspiracy, at the same occasion two years ago. The ex-clofoel stood for a couple of hours on a talan right next to the Lórien’s Sovereigns and then disappeared into oblivion once again; it was rumored (always with a careful look-around and in a whisper) that he was escorted back to the dungeons under the Mound of Somber Mourning by the clofoel of Stars’ maiden dancers, rather than the guards of the clofoel of Tranquility. Why? Whatever for? A great mystery.

This is the right policy: real Power, in order to remain such, has to be both unfathomable and unpredictable – otherwise, it is merely an authority. One could recall here the story (from one of the neighboring Worlds) of the experts who had tried, year after year, to divine the internal politics of a certain powerful and enigmatic state: they noted the order in which the local hierarchs took their places on the Tomb of the Founder during state holidays, what deviations from the alphabetical order occurred during the enumeration of their names, and the like. The experts were competent and wise, their conclusions deep and unfailingly logical; is it any wonder that they have never once made a correct prediction? Should someone have engaged the aforementioned experts to analyze the situation around the Festival of the Dancing Fireflies in Lórien, year 3019 of the Third Age, they would certainly have produced something like this: “Since this year the responsibility for the Festival has been assigned to the clofoel of the World for the first time ever, it follows that the expansionists have decisively triumphed over the isolationists in the Elvish administration; we should expect a rapid growth of Elvish presence in the key regions of Middle Earth. Some analysts believe that the key underlying factor is a shuffle of roles in the court of the Lady, who is concerned with the inordinate strengthening of the clofoel of Tranquility.” The funniest thing is that those logical exercises would have been quite correct in and of themselves, as is usual with this brand of analysis…

As for the Festival itself, it is uncommonly beautiful. Of course, only an Elf can fully appreciate its beauty; on the other hand, man is really so primitive and puny a creature that even the visible paltry scraps of the Festival’s true splendor are quite enough for him. On this night the inhabitants of Lórien gather on the telain close to Nimrodel; the mallorns provide a magnificent view on the river valley where constellations of bright phial lamps are strewn across the dewy fields surrounding melancholy backwaters (blackened silver, like Gondolin chest ornaments). The night sky itself appears but a dim reflection of this glorious display in an old bronze mirror. Strictly speaking, that is how it really is: on that night the movements of celestial bodies over Middle Earth merely reflect faithfully the happenings on the banks of Nimrodel. As already mentioned, a mortal can perceive only a tiny fraction of what happens there: he can enjoy the starscape, created by the lamps in the grass and unchanged since time immemorial, but human eyes have no business seeing the magical patterns woven by the phials of the dancers – it is this dance that forms the basis for the magic of the Firstborn. Very rarely do the echoes of this magic rhythm reach the world of Men through revelations to the greatest scalds and musicians, forever poisoning their souls with longing for unreachable perfection.

…As befits the clofoel of the Festival, Eornis was in the middle of the ‘sky’ this midnight, right where seven phials (six bright ones and one most bright) formed the Sickle of the Valar on the fields of Nimrodel, the constellation whose handle points at the Pole of the World. The clofoel of Stars and her dancers – the only ones allowed on the ‘sky’ – having left for the shade of the mallorns a while ago, she was completely alone, still futilely trying to figure out how baron Grager was going to accomplish what he promised: “By morning light you will find the sack with the Seeing Stone in the grass near to the phial that represents the Polar Star in the Sickle of the Valar.” Access to the ‘sky’ is forbidden to all other Elves, including even other clofoels, under penalty of death, so there’s no concern with anyone finding the palantír before her; but how will the Mordorian spies sneak here? Therefore… is it, therefore, one of the dancers? But that’s absolutely impossible – a dancer connected to the Enemy! Oh yeah? What about clofoel of the World connected to the Enemy – is that possible?

She objected to her own thoughts: I’m not connected to the Enemy, I’m merely playing my own game. Sure, I will do everything to save my boy, but I’m not even considering sticking to the conditions of their bargain. In the morning I’ll have the palantír, on noon of August first I’ll learn the name of the crown prince of Mordor – who else could it be? – and when it’s time to exchange the hostages I’ll make sure that they all remain in my hands, no worries. Apparently, these Men aren’t familiar with the Elves’ power; well, they’ll learn.

It’s not the Men that I have to fear – what can those dung worms do? – but my own kind. When I win this game I will lay a palantír and the head of a Mordorian prince at the feet of the Sovereigns, and no one will dare open their mouth – the winner is always right. Whereas if I fail or they simply won’t let me finish the game, the whole affair will be cast as a pact with the Enemy, as treason. The clofoel of Tranquility would give his right hand for a chance to charge me with that and send me to his dungeons under the Mound of Somber Mourning… Should he have even a shadow of doubt regarding my talks with the Ithilienians, his Guards will start digging like only they can, and then I’m finished. I did explain my visit to Emyn Arnen to Lady Galadriel by the need to check on news from Umbar: “someone in Lórien, possibly the clofoel of Tranquility, has apparently begun his own game with Aragorn.” Once he finds out about that conversation – which he will – he’ll have no choice but to thoroughly besmirch me in the eyes of the Sovereigns, and he’ll work hard at it.

She gave a start as it occurred to her: what if this whole business, including the happenings in Umbar, is nothing but a long-term play by the clofoel of Tranquility, and a Guard’s hand will be on my shoulder the moment I pick up a sack with a stone imitating a palantír? Elandar and those Ithilienian barons working against me for the clofoel of Tranquility?! Nonsense… I’m being afraid of my own shadow. How come the Ithilienian spies are teaming with Mordorians, obviously with Faramir’s knowledge? That’s clear, actually: they hope to gain, as their commission in the bargain, an Elvish clofoel compromised by working with the Enemy, and therefore forever pliant. Which is how it would’ve come out had I any intention of playing along.

In any event there’s no going back now: the only thing that will save me is a victory in this ‘prisoner exchange.’ Not only will it save me, it will elevate me to the next level! Afterwards I’ll find those who will put the sack with the Seeing Stone by the Polar Star tonight; I will do it myself, with my Service, ahead of the Guards, and expose those traitors to the Council: “Our incomparable preserver of Tranquility had been so busy looking for conspiracies – we all know what that’s worth – that he managed to overlook a real Enemy spy network in Caras Galadhon. Or, perhaps, he did not overlook it at all? Perhaps this network is connected higher than I dare suggest?” He won’t survive such a blow, no matter how Lord Cereborn covers for him; it will be a clear victory for the Lady and me.

…In the meantime, Kumai’s Dragon glided invisibly through Lórien’s night sky along the dimly reflecting meanders of Nimrodel. Once he saw a large spread of bright bluish lights forming a pretty good star map in the middle of a valley, the engineer relaxed and guided the glider down; so far everything was going according to plan. He located the Dipper, for some reason called the Sickle of the Valar in those parts, among these ‘constellations’ – good, just where it belongs in the real sky, with the Polar Star in the right place. Wonder what those lamps are made from? The light is obviously cold – perhaps the same stuff that luminesces in rotting mushrooms? The Dipper was growing fast; Kumai felt on the bottom of the cockpit for the sack he had extracted last night from its hiding place in the back of the Dol Guldur fireplace, and suddenly cursed through clenched teeth: “Damn, he never told me the actual size of that thing – how am I to figure my altitude in this dark?”

Haladdin had originally asked him to just retrieve the sack from the hiding place and drop it somewhere far away from the fortress during the next flight, so he could pick it up and get away. Then the doctor cut himself off in mid-sentence and asked, amazed: “Listen, maybe you can fly all the way to Lórien from here?”

“Sure, no sweat. Well, not exactly no sweat, but I can.”

“What about at night?”

“Well, I haven’t flown such distances at night before – it’s hard to navigate.”

“What if it’s the night of the full moon, and the target site has guiding lights?” “In that case it will be easier. Do you need aerial reconnaissance?”

“No. You see, I remembered how good you’ve gotten at dropping shells on ground targets. That’s exactly what you need to do in Lórien.”

Kumai had justified a night flight to his Dol Guldur superiors with a suggestion to practice night bombing. “Whatever the hell for?” “To drop incendiary shells onto enemy camps. If you have to put out burning tents on the night before a battle rather than getting some sleep, you won’t be in good shape to fight in the morning.” “Hmm… sounds reasonable. Very well; try it, engineer.” He took off at sunset (“I’ll fly around a bit until it gets dark”), made a wide turn so as not to be seen from the fortress, and only then headed west-north-west. He found the place where Nimrodel emptied into Anduin while it was still light, the rest was fairly routine…

Kumai let go and the sack disappeared into the ‘star’-studded darkness below. Two seconds later the glider’s nose covered the Polar Star: all set. If he wasn’t off by much figuring his altitude, the target has been hit. “Is it some sort of poison?” “No, magic.” “Magic?! You got nothing better to do?” “Trust me: the Lórien dudes won’t like this sack at all.” “Well, well. When things are really bad, people always swap magicians for physicians…” Whatever – he did his part, it’s the commanders’ job to know what all this is for. The less you know the better you sleep. Time to turn around and go home; it’s a long way, plus the wind is getting stronger.

When Kumai took a habitually daring turn over the sleepy waters of Nimrodel, he failed to take one thing into account: the height of the mallorns. Or, rather, he had no idea that such tall trees even exist.

There was a crash when one of the branches touched a wingtip, seemingly lightly, turning the glider into a spinning winged seed like those that the mallorns drop by the hundreds onto the wilted elanors in the fall.

There was another crash when the helpless Dragon spun right and slammed into the neighboring tree, tearing its skin, breaking its spine and bones.

Finally, there was a third crash when all that debris fell down along the trunk and onto a talan full of stunned Elves, almost right at the feet of the clofoel of Tranquility.

Strictly speaking, Kumai had done his job by then and could have been written off as an acceptable loss, with an appropriate mention of the omelet whose preparation requires breaking a few eggs. There was, however, one complicating circumstance: the Troll got quite banged up in the fall, but survived it – which was, understandably, a complete disaster.

Chapter 61

Star Council of Lórien

July 23, 3019 of the Third Age

Clofoel of Tranquility: Haste is advisable when hunting fleas or dealing with a sudden bout of diarrhea, esteemed clofoel of Might. So please don’t urge me along: Trolls are tough guys and I’ll need a significant amount of time to get reliable information out of him.

Lady Galadriel: How much time do you need, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility: I believe no less than three days, o radiant Lady.

Clofoel of Might: He just wants to give his bums under the Mound of Somber Mourning something to do, o radiant Sovereigns! This is so simple – let him use his truth potion and that spawn of Morgoth will spill his guts in a quarter-hour!

Lord Cereborn: Indeed, clofoel of Tranquility, why don’t you use the truth potion?

Clofoel of Tranquility: Is that an order, o radiant Lord?

Lord Cereborn: No, no, please don’t…

Clofoel of Tranquility: Thank you, o radiant Lord! It’s a strange thing: were I to start teaching the clofoel of Might how to arrange bowmen or cavalry for battle, he would have taken it as an insult, and he would have been right. Whereas when it comes to detecting criminals, somehow everyone here knows my job better than I do!

Lord Cereborn: No, please don’t take it this way…

Clofoel of Tranquility: As for the truth potion, esteemed clofoel of Might, it has no problem cracking open a Man’s mind – as you’ve correctly noted, it’d take less than a quarter-hour. The problem is sorting all the garbage that will spill from that cracked mind: trust me, it will take more than a few weeks to sift the kernels from the chaff. The potion is great for obtaining confessions, but what we need here is information! And what if something will be unclear at the first pass and explanations will be necessary? We won’t be able to ask a second time, since he’ll have turned into a drooling cretin. Therefore, please allow me to use more traditional methods.

Lady Galadriel: That was an excellent explanation, clofoel of Tranquility, thank you. I can see that the investigation is in good hands, please proceed as you see fit. But I’ve just thought of something. Since the mechanical dragon flew here from outside, this investigation may uncover really interesting nuances that have more to do with Middle Earth than with the Enchanted Forests. Dear Lord Cereborn, do you think that it may be beneficial to involve the clofoel of the World in the investigation, since she’s better acquainted with those specifics?

Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, that’s very reasonable! Isn’t it, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility: I dare not discuss the directives of the radiant Lady, o radiant Lord. But perhaps it will be easier to remove me from this task altogether, since I am not trusted?

Lord Cereborn: No, don’t even think about it! I’d be lost without you!

Lady Galadriel: We ought to consider the good of Lórien ahead of personal ambitions, clofoel of Tranquility. This is an extraordinary incident; two experts are always better than one. Do you disagree?

Clofoel of Tranquility: How can I, o radiant Lady!

Clofoel of the World: I have always dreamed of working with you, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility. My stores of knowledge and skills are entirely at your disposal, and I hope that they will prove useful.

Clofoel of Tranquility: I have no doubt they will, esteemed clofoel of the World.

Lady Galadriel: This is settled, then; keep us informed, clofoel of Tranquility. What did the clofoel of Stars wish to tell the Council?

Clofoel of Stars: I have no desire to needlessly disturb you, o radiant Sovereigns and esteemed clofoels of the Council, but it appears that this morning the pattern of the stars in the sky has changed slightly. This indicates a change of the entire arrangement of magic in the Enchanted Forests; some new, quite strong magical power has appeared here. The only time something similar had happened in my memory was when the Lady’s Mirror was delivered to Caras Galadhon.

Lady Galadriel: Could your dancers be mistaken, clofoel of Stars?

Clofoel of Stars: I would like to believe that, o radiant Lady. We will dance again tonight…

Kumai came to sooner than the Elves expected. Lifting his head painfully, he saw brilliant white walls with no windows; the sickly bluish light of the phial over a bar door seemed to drip off them onto the floor. He had no clothes on and his right hand was chained to the narrow bed, which was attached to the floor; when he touched his head he jerked his hand back in surprise: it was clean-shaven, with a long recent scar on its top smeared in something stinky and oily to the touch. He leaned back slowly, closed his eyes, and swallowed convulsively: understanding everything, he was scared as never before in his life. He would have given anything for a chance to die right then, before they got started, but – alas! – he had nothing left to give.

“Get up, Troll! No rest for the spawn of Morgoth! You have a long road to hell before you, so let’s get underway.”

There were three Elves – a man and a woman in identical silver-black cloaks and a deferential muscleman in a leather jacket. They appeared in the cell without a sound, moving with unnatural lightness, like huge moths, but somehow it was clear that they had strength to match a Troll’s. The Elf-woman looked the prisoner over unceremoniously and whispered something – apparently obscene – to her companion; the man grimaced chidingly.

“Maybe you’d like to tell us something yourself, Troll?”

“Maybe I would.” Kumai sat up, carefully lowering his legs off the bed, and was now waiting for nausea to subside. He had made a decision and fear receded, having no room left. “What do I get in return?”

“In return?!” The impudence struck the Elf speechless for a couple of seconds. “An easy death. Is that not enough?”

“No, it’s not. Easy death is already there for me; I’ve had a weak heart since childhood, so torturing me is useless; it’ll end when it begins.”

The Elf gave a silvery laugh. “You lie beautifully and engagingly.”

Kumai shrugged. “Give it a try. The higher-ups will give you hell if a spy dies under questioning, no?”

“We are the higher-ups, Troll.” The Elf sat down on a chair just brought into the cell by the man in leather jacket. “But please continue lying, we’re listening with interest.”

What’s there to lie about? He’s no child and understands his position. But he’s no dumb fanatic and has no wish to die for Motherland, his oath, or other such phantoms. Whatever for? The bosses keep sending them to certain death while sitting it out in the rear, cowardly dogs that they are… He’ll tell all he knows, and he knows quite a lot, having been on a lot of special missions for a long time – but not for free. Do you promise to keep him alive? It’s such a small thing for you. In an underground prison forever, in a lead mine, blinded and castrated, but alive?

“Say your piece, then, Troll. If you tell the truth and we find it interesting, we’ll find you a job in our mines. What do you think, milady Eornis?”

“Sure! Why not let him keep his life?”

Very well, his name is Cloud (shouldn’t get tripped up, he did have such a nickname as a child – that brat Sonya came up with it and it stuck to him until the University), Engineer Second Class, his last military unit was a guerilla band led by… Indun (that was an old professor who taught them optics during sophomore year). The band is based in Tzagan- Tzab Gorge in the Ash Mountains (that’s where Dad’s mine is, the place is nature-made for guerilla warfare, there has to be Resistance there… anyway, can’t come up with anything else that’d be consistent on the spot). Yesterday… wait, what day is it today? Ah yes, of course, you ask the questions here, sorry… Anyway, on the morning of the twenty-second he received orders to fly to Lórien so as to reach it on that night and spy out the positioning of the lights in the valley of Nimrodel. Personally he thinks that the whole affair is bogus, driven by desperation among the commanders who seem to be monkeying with some kind of magic. No, this time the order was not given by Indun, but by some other guy, never seen him before, apparently from Army Intelligence, nicknamed Jackal… What he looks like? An Orocuen, short, slanty-eyed, a small scar over the left brow… yes, he’s certain, the left one…

“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?”

Chapter 62

“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.

Lady Galadriel: Let us call a spade a spade, clofoel of Tranquility. Do you believe that the clofoel of the World had somehow treated with the Enemy and that the item dropped from the sky was intended for her?

Clofoel of Tranquility: I did not say that, o radiant Lady. However, only the dancers and the clofoel of the Festival had access to the ‘sky.’ Had the Troll’s gift been there during the Dance of the Fireflies, they certainly would have sensed it, whereas the clofoel of the World was the only one there after they left…

Lady Galadriel: Could the Elves that gather up the phials at sunrise have found that Mordorian sack and taken it with them, out of ignorance?

Clofoel of Tranquility: They could have, o radiant Lady, and my Guards are working on that possibility. Which is why I am only asking that the clofoel of the World be temporarily removed from the investigation of ‘the case of the Mordorian sack’ until this is ascertained, nothing more.

Lord Cereborn: Yes, this does seem a reasonable precaution, isn’t it?

Lady Galadriel: You’re right as always, Lord Cereborn. However, as long as we allow the possibility of treason by a clofoel, why don’t we suppose that conspiring dancers have indeed found the Mordorian sack that night and took it away for their own purposes? That would explain why they still haven’t found the source of such a powerful magical disturbance…

Clofoel of Stars: How am I to understand your words, o radiant Lady? Are you accusing me of conspiring?

Lord Cereborn: Yes, Lady, I have to admit that you have lost me, too… A conspiracy of dancers – is such a horror even possible?! With all that they’re capable of…

Lady Galadriel: There is no conspiracy of dancers, Lord Cereborn, please calm down! I was speaking hypothetically, as an example. As long as we’re suspecting everybody, let it be everybody, with no exceptions; but I believe it’s time for us to listen to the clofoel of the World.

Clofoel of the World: Thank you, o radiant Lady. First of all, I would like to defend the clofoel of Stars, strange as it may seem. She is being blamed for being unable to find a powerful magical source. However, I would like to suggest that this task may be akin to looking for last year’s snow.

Lady Galadriel: Could you be more clear, clofoel of the World?

Clofoel of the World: I obey, o radiant Lady! For some reason the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility keeps talking about a magical object dropped on the ‘sky’ and surreptitiously removed from there as if it was a firmly established fact…

Clofoel of Tranquility: It is a firmly established fact, esteemed clofoel of the World. You and I were not the only ones present at the Troll’s interrogation – at least three independent witnesses can corroborate his testimony.

Clofoel of the World: Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, your memory is playing tricks on you, as does your predilection to see conspiracies everywhere. The Troll testified that he had dropped a sack the contents of which he knew nothing about. Why are you looking for a physical object? Could it not have been swamp fire or some other intangible magical filth that simply melted in the sun and poisoned the countryside? Actually, I dare not discuss magical techniques in the presence of the esteemed clofoel of Stars.

Clofoel of Stars: I find your suggestion quite likely, esteemed clofoel of the World. More likely than a conspiracy of the dancers, at any rate.

Lady Galadriel: Did you want to tell us anything else in connection with the investigation, clofoel of the World?

Clofoel of the World: Most assuredly, o radiant Sovereigns! The esteemed clofoel of Tranquility is convinced that Dol Guldur, whence the dragon came, is run by Mordor, but I have reached a different conclusion. Certainly the notion that the Troll was working on orders from the Nazgúl is nonsense – we know better than anyone that the Black Order is no more. This Kumai’s history, however, is very interesting. He was captured at the Field of Pelennor and was rotting away at the Mindolluin quarry, as usual, when he was rescued precisely because he was a builder of mechanical dragons. The Troll is still convinced that it was his country’s intelligence service that got him out, but it looks like the poor man has been swindled. Queen Arwen’s entourage has reasons to believe that all those escapes from Mindolluin had been engineered by none other than His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, who desires Mordorian military technology. According to Arwen’s data, he had set up a special super-secret service for this purpose, the core of which are the dead he had revived with the Shadow spell; the little that is known about these characters includes the fact that they are all named after predators. Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, why do you think the Troll gave the nickname Jackal to the supposed Mordorian intelligence agent when spinning his clumsy legend? Simply because all such agents he had dealt with at Dol Guldur had such names! I have no doubt that Aragorn’s service controls Dol Guldur and had dispatched the dragon here. This prompts the following question to the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility: what did he talk about with Aragorn in private for over two hours, back during the latter’s January visit to Caras Galadhon?

Clofoel of Tranquility: Excuse me, but I had talked to him by order of the radiant Sovereigns!

Lady Galadriel: Lord Cereborn, do you see the kind of interesting picture you get when your information comes from not one, but two independent and not too friendly sources?

Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, you’re right, but I’m a little confused… This idea that the clofoel of Tranquility is connected to those… those living dead – it’s just a joke, right?

Lady Galadriel: I do wish that it turn out to be a joke. Our first priority, then, is to destroy Dol Guldur immediately, before they get ready…

Clofoel of Might: O radiant Lady, I will burn out that snake nest!

Lady Galadriel: I seem to remember that you and Lord Cereborn have already burned it out not three months ago… No, I have other, more important plans for you. I will deal with Dol Guldur myself this time: we have to knock down its walls once and for all – then it may work. Besides, I would really like to capture one of those beasties of Aragorn’s alive. How many people man that fake fortress, clofoel of Tranquility?

Clofoel of Tranquility: A few dozen, o radiant Lady, I can check…

Lady Galadriel: There’s no need. Turn a thousand warriors over to my command, clofoel of Might, I’m leaving immediately. As for all of you… Clofoels of Tranquility and the World are to continue their joint investigation; I find that their cooperative work is producing excellent results, keep it up. The dancers and the clofoel of Stars are to continue looking for the magical object that had been dropped on Caras Galadhon, but only together with the Guards, lest the finder decide to study its magical properties alone. As for you, clofoel of Might, you will remain in charge here and watch over all of them: those are really children who may set the house on fire while Mama is away. For example, clofoel of Tranquility shouldn’t play soldier with his beloved Border Guard, the clofoel of Stars shouldn’t preen before my Mirror, the clofoel of the World… do you understand me, clofoel of Might?

Clofoel of Might: How could I not, o radiant Lady?! I know these scheming troublemakers like the back of my hand!

Lord Cereborn: What about me, Lady?

Lady Galadriel: You, Lord Cereborn, are to represent Lórien’s supreme power, as usual: show yourself to people, sign royal proclamations, and all that…

Chapter 63

Mirkwood, south of Dol Guldur

July 31, 3019

The rain seemed endless. Fall-like cold drizzle hung in the air for three straight days; when thunder rolled, it seemed like the gods leisurely kicking water out of an enormous mattress hanging almost all the way down to earth. Over the last three days the little creek that Grizzly’s company had just run up against had turned into a raging river tossing small stones in its path. While six men were rigging a suspended rope bridge to ferry over the seriously wounded, the rest of the soldiers stood motionlessly on the bank. Icy rivulets ran down their tired faces, turning sweaty clothing into ice packs and steadily eroding whatever fighting spirit they had left. Running, standing still, and icy chills – a winning combination.

Grizzly looked at the taut rope suspending the first of the helpless wounded on chest and waist harnesses, then at the ford where crossing horsemen fought the current, kicking up coffee-colored water, and once again clenched his teeth. Rotten luck – he had not expected to spend nearly an hour crossing this creek, what with Elves already breathing down their necks. Most of his men were still desperately fighting at Dol Guldur, their only task to preoccupy the main forces of the Elvish army that had invaded Mirkwood the day before yesterday. Grizzly himself, having miraculously slipped through the tightening noose of the besiegers with a column of Mordorian and Isengardian engineers in his keep, was now going south along the highway with all possible haste, concurrently diverting the Elvish pursuit from Wolverine, who was escaping alone with papers in his backpack – what of the Weapon Monastery archives they had not yet sent down. Grizzly’s entire plan hinged on the Elves’ sending only a small contingent to chase them, one they would be able to repulse once joined to Aragorn’s forces guarding the Brown Lands portion of the highway against the real Mordorians. Everything was going all right until they ran into this damned creek… time, they were running out of time! Grizzly stood hidden by the mossy trunk of a Mirkwood fir, expecting to see silent shadows in gray-green camouflage cloaks flit through the trees at any second. Actually, he was not likely to see anything – his last experience would be a short whistle of an Elvish arrow.

“Lieutenant, sir!” One of his subordinates showed up by his side. “The escorted persons and personnel are all across. Your turn.”

That was fast, Grizzly congratulated himself; then he froze, looking at the raging river and treacherous water-slick boulders on its banks with a new, appreciative look. Well, Firstborn, just you wait – betcha we’ll get all the lost time back with interest.

“Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir?”

“How many steel crossbows do we have?..”

…Lord Ereborn and his troop reached the creek about half an hour after Grizzly’s company disappeared in the rain on its other side. For about ten minutes the Elvish lookouts spread around behind the trees and studied the opposite bank, seeing nothing. Then a volunteer, one Edoret, his sword tied up on his back, carefully entered the stream and picked his way forward between eddies and rapids, expecting a shot at any second. When the water reached the middle of his thighs, he got swept off his feet, but the Elf could swim like an otter; having luckily escaped the gauntlet of boulders, he soon reached a small backwater under the opposite bank, where large heads of yellowish foam piled up between the branches of semi-submerged willows strung with grassy debris. Edoret got out of the water, waved to his friends and halted, figuring the best way to get through the boulders without breaking his neck; the lookouts caught their breath and put their bows down – it looked safe. The field manual of any army in any world demands that the scout be given time to ascertain the situation, but Ereborn was in a hurry to catch his prey before dark and decided to save on the precautions. Five Elves followed Edoret at his sign.

When they were about knee-deep in the water, the loud call of a blue jay sounded over the creek, and at that signal a crossbow volley hit from the other side. Three Elves were either killed immediately or grievously wounded, drowned, and carried away by the stream; the fourth had his shoulder shattered but managed to get out of the water and limp back into the trees; the fifth fared worst of all – the bolt hit him through the gut and stuck in the spine, leaving him sprawled at the water’s edge. Time seemed to stop for Edoret, trapped on the enemy side: the scout had a brief moment to spy out the crossbowmen hidden higher on the slope, even managing to count them (six), and soberly figured out the time it would take him to unlimber his bound-up sword and close in on the enemy, slipping on the slick boulders all along the way. He then made the only appropriate decision: dived back into the river and let the stream carry him away. The bolt that sped after him only dinged the top of a water- polished boulder, leaving a whitish scar smelling of singed chicken and immediately obliterated by the rain.

Lord Ereborn was what is known as ‘a young man from a good family;’ he had neither a commander’s gift nor at least a warrior’s blood-tempered experience, but he did have an abundance of vainglorious courage – a dangerous combination. Seeing that they were dealing with a small group of bowmen covering the retreat of the main force, rather than the rear guard of that force, the lieutenant decided to bet the farm on the crossbows’ major weakness – long reloading time (two shots per minute compared to two dozen for a bow) – and ordered a frontal attack. The Dragon’s Claw (his family sword) raised high, Ereborn blew two trumpet blasts and waded into the stream amidst tremendous splashing. The lieutenant had on a suit of armor of famed Gondolin sponge steel, almost as strong as mithril, so he did not fear the arrows from the other bank.

A moment later he fully appreciated the difference between Angmarian hunting arbalests he was familiar with and the next-generation steel crossbows developing twelve hundred force- pounds at the bowstring. The three-ounce armor-piercing bolt hit Ereborn in the lower right chest at eighty yards per second; the links of the Gondolin armor acquitted themselves admirably, preventing the arrow from digging into the Elf’s insides, but a half-ton blow to the liver will knock out anyone. The bloodless face in a silvery helmet flashed once amidst the rapids, the billowing fabric of the cloak was pulled under after it and disappeared forever – the ancient armor turned into deadweight. The young armor-bearer who dashed to the rescue got a bolt straight into the bridge of his nose, and the attack fizzled out.

Any Men, be they the savage Haradrim, the Riders of Rohan, or even Umbarian marines, simply would have used their overwhelming numbers to charge across the cursed ford, bridging it with their corpses and overwhelming the few defenders in a minute or two. Not so the Elves – the price of a Firstborn’s life is way too high to lay them down like that on the banks of some nameless Mirkwood creek. They have really come here to hunt (albeit a very dangerous prey) rather than wage war; such attitude is not conducive to either scaling a castle wall or running across a ford under fire. Retrieving their dead and wounded, the Elves retreated under the cover of trees and showered the enemy with arrows. Pretty soon it turned out that the archery duel was not going right, either (meaning to the Firstborn). The rain was the culprit: the Elvish bowstrings were hopelessly wet and the arrows fell harmlessly, plus it was nearly impossible to take decent aim. In the meantime, Dol Guldur bolts kept finding their mark – truly a device of Morgoth!

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?

Chapter 64

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.

“I’m here, as you can see.” The captain shrugged, the gesture momentarily making him look absolutely civilian.

“So we were simply sold out?”

“Now, now, Lieutenant – sold out?” Cheetah drawled mockingly. “Not ‘sold out,’ but ‘sacrificed in the name of the Highest State Interests.’ You know, the way you did with the defenders of Dol Guldur – sacrifice the few for the many, right? Long story short – Minas Tirith has decided that now is not the time to meet the Elves ‘point against point,’ so all our forces and their support structures have pulled back from the highway. Dol Guldur? What Dol Guldur? No idea what you’re talking about.”

“As I understand it, Captain, you didn’t like that decision at all, sir?”

“I’m here, as you can see,” the chief of Task Force Féanor repeated deliberately. “Our Service doesn’t allow the luxury of a resignation…”

“Elves!!” came a cry from up ahead, full of not even fear, but a hopeless despondency.

“No panic!” roared Cheetah; leaping into the saddle, he stood in the stirrups and, raising a narrow Elvish sword (yes, the very one from the Field of Pelennor!) to the solidly overcast sky, ordered: “Square formation, Lieutenant! Horsemen to the right!”

Perhaps he added something else, appropriately historic, like the “Donkeys and scientists to the middle!” that was sounded over the dunes of a neighboring World under similar circumstances. But be that as it may, those words did not make it into the history textbooks of Middle Earth: the approaching Elvish line was too far to hear, and none of those now taking up defense next to Cheetah were destined to see the dawn of August the first. So it goes.

Chapter 65

Lórien, Caras Galadhon

August 1, 3019

They have gathered in the Blue Hall of the Galadhon Palace at the crack of dawn at the insistence of the clofoel of Stars. The morning felt like fall: crisp and cold like water in a forest spring, so the chills that bothered Eornis (invisibly to anyone else) may have been due to that; at least that was what she wanted to believe. What is the Master of the Stars up to? Great Eru, what if her dancers found the palantír? No, that’s impossible, but what if they’ve figured out where it is? In the meantime, the main problem – how to get to the Mirror, closely guarded by clofoel of Might’s men, today at noon – remains unsolved, and she is still bereft of ideas.

It has been clear to everyone for the past week that they had to look for a physical object (the possibility of swamp fire or another magical emanation, suggested by the clofoel of the World, has been duly checked and found untrue), and a methodical search began. When it is said that the dancers of the clofoel of Stars ‘sniff out magic,’ it is a fairly accurate metaphor: they do work like sniffing dogs. Throughout the last few days the girls have been walking around Caras Galadhon in a trance, feeling the air with outstretched palms, as if hunting a bird hiding in the fallen leaves or playing a game of ‘hot-cold.’ So far it was ‘cold’ – the magical object was somewhere very close but beyond their reach. That was as Eornis expected: she had been much more concerned with the Guards of the clofoel of Tranquility and their banal police methods than with the dancers’ magic.

Danger sneaked up on the clofoel of the World from an unexpected quarter. The clofoel of Might, left in charge during the Lady’s expedition to Mirkwood (the old battleaxe, who never played his own games, was the only member of the Council she could trust), took to his duties with excessive zeal. Among other things, his subordinates have replaced the Galadhon palace guard, so that one fine morning the bewildered clofoels discovered that they could not come into the Blue Hall for a Council session. All their attempts to reason with the new guards failed against their implacable “no such orders!” Of course, the misunderstanding was rectified right away, but now everyone was aware that the rules were now being set by the clofoel of Might at his discretion until the Lady’s return. Since the Lady had directly forbidden the clofoel of Stars to access the Mirror while she was away (a very sensible precaution), he simply barred all clofoels from the Moon Tower where the magical crystal was kept – “can’t overdo a good thing.” Should she fail to overcome this hurdle in the few remaining hours, her well-crafted plan will be for naught and nothing will save Eloar then…

“How is your search going, esteemed clofoel of Stars?” Eornis inquired with courteous indifference while they were taking their places around the Council table.

“Not good. I have asked you all to gather here for a much more grave reason…”

Eornis looked at the master of the magical forces of Lórien in amazement – the woman looked ill and her voice was strangely lifeless. It does look serious, doesn’t it?

“I will not bother you with a detailed description of our magical rituals, esteemed clofoels of the Council and you, o radiant Lord – we have too little time… maybe no time at all. For about a week now the dancers and I have been feeling strange pulsations in the Mirror’s magic field. First it was a light vibration, then it turned into real convulsions, and yesterday those convulsions assumed a definite and highly unpleasant rhythm… Do none of you feel anything?” The clofoel of Memory broke the ensuing silence suddenly: “I feel it!” It was hard to tell what shocked the Council more – the report of the clofoel of Stars or this unheard-of violation of protocol. Formally all clofoels were equals, but never before did any of the minor ones – all those palace librarians, nurses, and masters of ceremonies – dare interrupt the discussions of the Sovereigns and the Big Four. “It is exactly as you describe, o esteemed clofoel of Stars! But I didn’t know it was caused by the Mirror…”

How would you ever know that, you timid mouse, thought Eornis in annoyance. Do you know anything but your dusty Beleriand scrolls and stupid sagas? But I – how did I fail to connect all those vibrations with the Mirror? So that’s where my chills come from… The question is – do I acknowledge this fact and thereby assist that Star bitch?.. Yes, and I should go even further, in fact.

“I believe that the esteemed clofoel of Memory has shown tremendous courage by openly stating what we all feel but are afraid to mention aloud. The feeling we are having is a strong irrational fear, is it not?”

“Maybe some girls feel strong unreasoned fear, but I personally fear no damn thing, clofoel

of the World! So don’t you go around saying…”

“Thank you, esteemed clofoel of Might; we have taken your opinion into account. As I understand it, the other members of the Council share the opinion voiced by the esteemed clofoel of the World.” The clofoel of Stars bowed slightly to Eornis. “However, our fear is not irrational. The thing is that the Mirror… how should I explain this… it is somewhat alive. The pulsating rhythm it is now creating is well-known in magic: it is the rhythm of labor pains, but in reverse. It is a horrible thing. The Mirror is anticipating its demise and our World’s with it… It is anticipating, and trying to reach out to us, do you see? And the stars over Lórien seem to have gone mad…”

The clofoel of Tranquility leaned forward: “Could this be related to the magical object your dancers can’t find?”

“Yes, it could,” the clofoel of Stars nodded glumly; she was obviously indisposed to develop this idea further and even refrained from adding something appropriate about the Guards having done no better.

“Wait, what does this mean – demise of our World?” That was Lord Cereborn; imagine the man actually waking up!

“Literally, o radiant Lord – one moment it exists, the other it doesn’t, and we along with it.”

“Then do something! Clofoel of Stars! You, too, clofoel of Tranquility! I… I order you as your Lord!”

What would we ever do without your orders, o precious liege – that was what showed clearly on the faces of the Big Four. The clofoel of Stars traded looks with the clofoels of the World and Tranquility, lingering a bit on the clofoel of Might, and finally uttered: “First, o radiant Lord, I must take a look at the Mirror immediately, without delay.”

“Yes, of course! Go right away!”

So this is my end, thought the clofoel of the World detachedly, staring at the play of the shades of green in the emerald of her ring. I can make no objection to her suggestion – she played her cards well and the entire Council, including that doddering fool, is on her side…

However, at that moment a figure clad in shining armor, its size and delicacy of features resembling those of the stone idols guarding lower Anduin, loomed over the table. While Eornis wondered idly whether the clofoel of Might ever took off his helmet and mithril mail (to make love, say), the man informed them of his opinion of cowards and civvies – which are really one and the same to him! – in plain soldier’s language. He, for one, feels no such ominous rhythms, and how would the clofoel of Stars and her dancers know this childbirth rhythm, anyway? Aren’t they supposed to be virgins? In any case, he has a direct order of the Lady not to let the clofoel of Stars to the Mirror, and any attempt to violate that order will be treated as rebellion, with all that follows… Yeah, and what did you think, o radiant Lord?!

“Yes, yes,” mumbled the Lord of Lórien (obviously the inescapable wrath of the Lady scared him a lot more than any hypothetical end of the world), “let’s wait for her return from the Dol Guldur expedition…”

“Come to your senses, radiant Lord!” Amazed, Eornis stared at the clofoel of Memory – the poor woman must’ve lost all grip on reality to utter such unthinkable words. “Our world is already sliding into an abyss, the only one who has any chance of saving it is the clofoel of Stars, and this helmeted idiot is standing on an order received ages ago! All right, can’t blame a man with a bronze lump for brains, but you all – Almighty Eru, can’t you rise above your petty intrigues even now, on the eve of destruction?!”

Suddenly Eornis realized that the timid book mouse has simply voiced what the entire dozen of lesser clofoels were thinking. Not just them, either, as became clear the next second when the enraged clofoel of Might tossed his chair aside – for the clofoel of Tranquility was already coming around the table towards him, stepping softly as a tiger, hand on the hilt of his sword, and a smile fit to freeze the Eternal Fire on his lips.

“You’ve just mentioned rebellion, esteemed clofoel of Might… that’s an interesting thought, isn’t it, o radiant Lord?”

“Hey, you… both of you…” the Lord mumbled and shrank in his chair: the lesser clofoels already backed to the walls, and…

“Stop!!” The solution that occurred to the clofoel of the World was akin to a flash of lightning: all the pieces of the puzzle she had been trying in vain to assemble suddenly fell together in the only possible way. “I am speaking to you, clofoel of Might!”

He probably would not have listened to anyone else, but over the last few years’ worth of intrigues she had always taken the Lady’s side, and thus had some influence over him. “The radiant Lady did mention – in passing and half-jokingly – that the clofoel of Stars was not to preen before her Mirror. However, she had imposed no restrictions on the other clofoels’ access to the crystal. Do you agree, esteemed clofoel of Might?”

“Yes, that’s true…”

“See? It’s settled, then: by the will of the Council I will ascend the Moon Tower. Of course, my magical capabilities can’t even be compared to the talents of the esteemed clofoel of Stars, but I’m at least capable of comprehensively reporting the Mirror’s condition to her.”

The clofoel of Stars shook her head. “Do you have any idea, esteemed clofoel of the World, how dangerous it is to look in the Mirror to anyone not protected by my magical talents, as you’ve referred to them?”

“I have no intention of looking in the Mirror – my selflessness doesn’t go that far,” laughed Eornis. “As far as I know, the radiant Lady uses Lórien’s human visitors for this purpose; they are mortal anyway, sooner or later. We happen to have one handy – that flying Troll. I hope he hasn’t been liquidated yet, has he, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility?”

“No, not yet. We’ll have to fix him up some, though: when the poor slob read his testimony, he totally fell apart – first tried to kill himself, then went catatonic.”

“That’s no obstacle to what we need to do. So it’s agreed – you will turn the Troll over to me before noon?”

“Agreed. However, esteemed clofoel of the World… I’m a little concerned for your safety. A Troll is a Troll – a wild and unpredictable creature. The three of us will go to the Moon Tower together – you, me, and him. That’ll be safer.”

“I am so touched by your concern, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility.”

“Not at all, esteemed clofoel of the World.”

Chapter 66

The sun was already approaching its zenith when they have passed the guards of the clofoel

of Might at the entrance to the Moon Tower. The narrow spiral staircase forced them to go single-file. The clofoel of Tranquility went first, easily taking every other step; of course, he was not afraid of the Troll following him and had not even handcuffed him, relying on a Web spell instead. Milady Eornis brought up the rear, going over the details of her plan for one last time. Yes, there’s a chance of success, but it’s really minuscule, and the worst part is that everything depends on a myriad of coincidences, rather than her own abilities. In any event, her long game with the clofoel of Tranquility had reached its end – only one of them will be coming out of this tower, with only chance determining which one…

The top chamber of the Moon Tower was a round room about ten yards in diameter, the Mirror its only furniture. The crystal was set in a mithril setting with curved legs a foot and a half long, so that the whole thing resembled a small table. Six elongated windows offered an excellent view of Caras Galadhon. It’s funny, Eornis reflected in passing, that this Troll is probably the only Man to ever see the real sight of the Elvish capital, but he won’t relate it to anyone. Those guests that we intend to release are never allowed beyond the talien next to Nimrodel, so those simpletons leave believing that we actually live on those perches…

“Bring him up to the Mirror, clofoel of Tranquility, but don’t remove the Web just yet…”

Only after uttering these words did the clofoel of the World realize that the Mirror was, indeed, in a bad way. The crystal was ink-black, the blackness lit up by pulses of scarlet light at regular intervals; it felt distinctly like the Mirror was emitting one endless silent scream of terror and pain. Maybe it’s not good for it to be close to a palantír? she wondered belatedly. Whatever, can’t change anything at this point. Please endure this a bit longer, she thought at the Mirror; this will all be over in a few minutes. As if in response, the crystal almost exploded from inside with a singularly powerful scarlet flash which for some reason reminded her of the Eternal Fire… The thought came and went as other matters occupied her attention: the clofoel of Tranquility had apparently noticed (felt, to be precise) that the room was not as empty as it seemed. According to her plan, that was exactly what he was supposed to do, without any prompting from her. Imagine the irony of relying on one’s mortal enemy’s intuition and professionalism!

The clofoel of Tranquility had thoroughly scanned the room and saw nothing suspicious, as was to be expected. It’s useless to search for anything magically here – the Mirror generates a magical field of such intensity as to drown those of all other objects. A totally empty room and a low ‘table’ on thin legs… Could I have hidden an object here, a small one? Yes, I could have… sure I could! Wait – a small object? What did the Troll say? “About the size of a child’s head!” So that’s why you wanted to get up to the Mirror!..

“Clofoel of the World! You’re under arrest for treason. Stand against the wall!”

They stood facing each other, the Mirror between them; the clofoel of Tranquility had his sword out – he was not about to give that snake any chances, she was mortally dangerous as it was.

“Unclip the dagger from your belt… now the stiletto in your left sleeve… Kick them away with your foot! Now, we’ll talk. The magic object that Star fool’s dancers can’t find is attached to the bottom of the ‘table,’ right? One has to drop on all fours before the Mirror to see it – surely no one will think of that. It’s impossible to find it magically – the dancers are like a dog that has to find a perfumed handkerchief hidden in a sack of crushed pepper. An excellent idea, my compliments! By the way, what is it?”

“A palantír.”

“Whoa!” He apparently never expected that. “Whose gift is it – the Enemy’s?”

“No, Aragorn’s.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” “It’s the truth. His Majesty Elessar Elfstone is a farsighted Man, he never puts all his eggs in one basket. You think you’re the only who talked to him privately back in January? Get rid of me, and he won’t help you in your game against the Lady.”

“You’re wrong, my dear: the fewer one’s allies, the more valuable they become, so he’s not going anywhere. You, however, can look forward to a real education under the Mound: the boys there are quite creative, and I’ll make sure you won’t die too quickly.”

“To do that you’ll have to offer proof of my treason, which means turning the palantír over to the Council. Would it not be better to keep it and turn me into your agent in the Lady’s retinue? I can offer a lot, you know.”

“All right, enough talking! Face the wall, now! Sit down on the floor! On the floor, I said! How did you attach it – with magic?”

“No, just the sticky ankasar juice,” she replied, and then added pleadingly, staring at the wall: “Please listen to me…”

“Quiet!”

The last word came out slightly muffled: apparently, the clofoel of Tranquility behind her back had already bent over, feeling the bottom side of the crystal – meaning that it was time. While pretending to conduct a pitiful loser’s haggle, Eornis had been pushing through the dense crashing waves of the Mirror’s magic field to the sticky gray ropes of the Web spell binding the Troll. Every spell carries an imprint of its caster, making him the only one able to lift it – doing so is a mortal danger to all others, and usually useless, too. Fortunately, the Web is one of the simplest spells, purely technical and almost bereft of a personality imprint, so it’s worth a risk. Now everything will hinge on what the freed Troll will do. Of course, he’s been broken by knowledge that he had somehow told everything he knew to the enemy; the question is – how broken? If he had turned into jelly, I’m finished; but if he’s still a Man and would like to at least pay back the one who tricked him into a betrayal, I can help him. I help him, he helps me…

Suddenly Eornis ripped at the Web the way one rips a bandage stuck to a wound – in one swift movement, the only possibility here. A horrible pain knocked her out for a moment; so this is what lifting another’s spell is like, even when it’s a trifle like the Web being removed by an Elvish clofoel… By the time she surfaced from her unconsciousness a few seconds later, it was all over – the clofoel of Tranquility lay prone on the floor near the Mirror, his head turned at an unnatural angle, as if trying to see something behind his back. The Troll must have fallen on the Elf kneeling before the Mirror from behind and simply wrung his neck with bare hands; he was now on a windowsill, clearly about to escape, which Eornis had no intention of stopping. She smirked: the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility had released the Troll and imprudently looked away, while I had no time to do anything. It happened so fast, esteemed Members of the Council! I am eternally grateful to the late clofoel: had he not volunteered to accompany me, undoubtedly I would have been dead…

Kumai had only a split second to sweep his gaze over the amazing panorama of the Elvish capital while taking his last step; all those towers and suspension bridges fell on him like a theatrical decoration while six-sided flagstones raced at him. His last thought was: what if those bastards piece me together again?..

Perhaps they would have (who really knows the limits of the Elves’ power?), but they had no time left for that or anything else. The sun was already at zenith, so Eornis took the palantír out of its protective silver-shot sack and brought it right next to the maddened Mirror, which looked fit to gallop away on its bent little legs. After waiting the prescribed time, the clofoel of the World brought together the two orange sparks within the magic crystal, thus switching it to ‘send-receive’ mode…

Chapter 67

Arnor, the Tower of Amon Súl – Mordor, western edge of Orodruin

August 1, 3019 of the Third Age, a quarter-hour before noon

“Hold it!” Gandalf ordered in a voice hoarse with strain, as if he was supporting an immense weight – which he was, no matter that the weight was not a physical one. All the four wizards of the White Council were totally exhausted, sweat rolling down their wax-like faces as they were ready to collapse. This job really took a pentagram, but their numbers only sufficed for a square… ah, Saruman, Saruman!

A huge map of Middle Earth, drawn somewhat schematically but with careful attention to scale and orientation right on the flagstones, took up the entire floor. A palantír rested in its middle, which corresponded to Arnor, casting flashes of colored light – yellow, blue, greenish – haphazardly in all directions. The efforts of the White Wizards were not in vain, though – slowly the flashes merged into a steady emanation which then separated into needle-thin colored rays. Gandalf uttered a short ‘fixing’ spell, which served as a “Down!” command; the wizards repeated it in unison and let themselves relax, as if they have just put down a cupboard full of crystalware they have been carrying. The first part of the job was done.

The colored rays that now spread out across the floor and beyond the walls from the palantír

in the center joined the crystal to the other six throughout Middle Earth. It was impossible to tell exactly where the other palantíri were, but to know the direction was also useful. First, Gandalf studied the golden-yellow ray leading due west into the ocean. Yellow meant that the other Seeing Stone was in regular working state, meaning that this was the palantír

of Kirden the Ship-builder, king of the Western Elves; the wizard made sure that the ray went through the part of Lindon shore where the Tower of Emyn Beraid stood and nodded in satisfaction: their map had been drawn accurately and they could go on.

The two clouded-green rays that formed an almost straight line, leading north-north-west to the Bay of Forochel in one direction and south-south-east to the delta of the Great River in the other, were of no interest to him: those were the sunk palantíri, the two on the lost ship of Prince Arvedui and the one carried by the Anduin from Osgiliath. The ones that had prompted this whole exercise were azure-blue (meaning that the palantíri were working but enclosed in silver-shot protective sacks) and led south-east, only very slightly apart. To Mordor. Damn it all! “Where did they get a second crystal, Gandalf?”

“Look at the map – see any lines leading to Emyn Arnen? Looks like His Highness the Prince of Ithilien has kept up his pre-war games with the East and handed Denethor’s palantír to those spawn of Morgoth, the asshole! I wish Aragorn had strangled him back at that hospital…”

“Now, now, Gandalf! What if Aragorn and Faramir had simply made a secret alliance against the Elves, using the remnants of the Orcs? Then it could’ve been Elessar Elfstone himself that gave the Minas Tirith palantír to the Orcs. I mean, everybody is now working against the Elves, including ourselves, just separately.”

Even so, Gandalf thought in consternation, the overall picture is no clearer. Vakalabath’s prophecy has many possible meanings, but it can be read as “Magic will depart Middle Earth with the palantíri” – today at noon – or not at all. How can this be? He stared at the dark-blue rays again: one goes through Barad-Dur and the eastern part of Núrnen, the other slightly to the west, through Gorgoroth and Orodruin… Orodruin?! So that is what they’ve decided to do!

Or, perhaps… no, there are no such coincidences! Looks like those Mordorian idiots have decided to drop their crystal into the Eternal Fire, thereby destroying it. What do they hope to accomplish? Sure, this will tweak the magic fields of the other palantíri and even the Mirror, but, really, not as drastically as to banish magic from Middle Earth! Even if another palantír that happens to be in receiving mode is destroyed at the same time…

“Gandalf, look! Something strange is happening to the eastern ray!”

The head of the White Council has already noticed something weird about the ray going through eastern Mordor: it started changing color and brightness at fixed intervals, as if storm clouds were moving across an evening sky.

“But that’s impossible!” the wizard in the blue cloak spoke again. “There’s only one thing in all of Middle Earth capable of influencing a palantír’s field – the Mirror. But the Mirror is with the Elves in Lórien while the palantír is in Mordor…”

A terrible guess pierced Gandalf’s brain. “That palantír is not in Mordor,” he rasped, pointing at the map. “Its ray goes through eastern Mordor, true, but first it goes through Caras Galadhon – look at the map! – and that’s where it is, right by the Mirror!”

“Wait – could this be a coincidence? The Elves of Lórien have never had a palantír, and Kirden’s is in place.”

“They haven’t before, but they do now! I don’t know who made Lady Galadriel this gift – Aragorn, Faramir, or the Orcs – but she put the crystals together for some reason. At noon the Orcs – or maybe they aren’t Orcs, how am I to know? – will drop their palantír into Orodruin, the Eternal Fire will jump from the Orodruin palantír to the Lórien one and from there to the Mirror, and then it really will be all over! And when the Mirror is destroyed, all the other Seeing Stones will turn into clots of Eternal Fire, including ours.” At those words the White wizards shrank back involuntarily, as if the deadly fire was already singeing their faces. “There’s Vakalabath’s prophecy for you! Make a triangle, quick! Help me – perhaps we’ll be in time…”

Gandalf kneeled in front of the palantír. A dense chain of blue-violet sparks shimmered into existence between his palms, and he began winding it around the crystal exactly as if he was winding woolen thread into a ball; a tangy freshness came into the air, as if a lightning had struck somewhere nearby. The other three wizards have already poured all their power into the head of the White Council and now stood around him motionless and silent, like statues; none of them dared think of the all-consuming fiery dragon that could hatch out of its crystal egg at any moment. Gandalf’s hands moved faster and faster; hurry, White Wizard, there’s a lot at stake! A lot? How about everything?

Finally he sank to the floor and just sat there for a few seconds, eyes closed. He had to use his teeth to uncork the flask of Elvish wine – his hands were now forever numb, as if frozen. Holding the flask between insensate palms, he drank a couple of swallows and handed the flask to Radagast without looking. They made it, despite everything… The ray of light going from their palantír to the one at Orodruin was now scarlet-purple rather than blue; the moment those guys take their crystal out of its protective silver net, Gandalf’s spell will coil around it like a blue snake. He wouldn’t want to be the one to touch that ball… Now it’s time to catch my breath and consider how we might grab that palantír which will surely remain lying there among the rocks of Orodruin.

Haladdin tore himself away from contemplating the scarlet gold-tinged lava boiling almost at his feet in the crater. Squinting and shielding his eyes with his palm, he estimated the position of the sun, already a bit past noon. Lórien lies substantially to the west of Mordor, so noon at Orodruin should be about a quarter-hour before Lórien’s. Looks like it’s time to take the palantír out of its bag and wait for the Mirror to appear in it – provided that Kumai did his job… He rebuked himself: don’t dare think that! You know with absolute certainty that he did everything exactly as requested. You can look forward to killing that woman – all right, Elf-woman, what’s the difference – in just a few minutes. Well, that’s been mulled over a thousand times. I suppose I could ask Tzerlag (there he is, snoozing by the rocks – nerves of steel!) to ‘carry out the sentence,’ but that’d be really…

The voyage to Orodruin was not too hard. Runcorn accompanied them to the Hotont pass – the ranger wanted to scout a good place for a house in the upper reaches of the Otter Creek anyway – where Matun met them. Matun viewed the rendezvous with ‘Haladdin’s scouting team’ as a short vacation from the front lines – war still raged home in Mordor, whereas here, beyond the Mountains of Shadow, everything was nice and quiet. By that time Faramir had made every possible effort to make peace with the Shadow Mountain Trolls, fully succeeding in his diplomatic efforts last week when a delegation of three Trollish elders visited Emyn Arnen. Someone – let’s not point fingers – did not like this rapport one bit, so a special assassination team waited for the elders at the outskirts of the Settlement. However, Baron Grager’s intelligence service acquitted itself admirably: not only did it avert the attempt, it proved that the provocation was directed from beyond the Anduin. The assassins that survived the battle were let go with an order to ask His Majesty to vary his methods a bit. In any event, Grager’s proofs were enough for the elders: they broke a traditional flatbread with the Prince of Ithilien and departed, leaving their younger sons to serve in the prince’s personal guard as a sign of their covenant. By that time the Ithilienians have already established lively barter trade with the Trolls without waiting for any royal permissions. The Elves controlling the Cirith Ungol pass watched all that with hot fury but could do nothing about it – not enough manpower.

“How’s Ivar doing, Matun? How’s maestro Haddami – still amusing you all with his jokes?”

“Haddami got killed,” the Troll answered solemnly. “Gods rest his soul, he was a worthy man, even though Umbarian…” He looked at Haladdin’s face and mumbled in embarrassment: “My apologies, sir! I wasn’t thinking. What about that Gondorian of yours?”

“He got killed, too.”

“I see.”

They only spent a few hours in Ivar’s camp. The lieutenant tried several times to detail guards to accompany them to Orodruin (“It’s real dicey on the plains right now, Easterling patrols are all over the place”), but the sergeant only chuckled: “You hear that, Matun? They’re gonna lead me through the desert!” He was right: helping an Orocuen in the desert is like teaching a fish to swim, and a smaller company is much better in their situation. So the two of them made the journey together, ending the way they started.

Yes, it was time. Haladdin untied the sack, pushed apart its stiff silver-embroidered sides and took the heavy crystal ball in his hands, looking for the orange sparks in its pale opalescent depths.

Here in Amon Súl the distant palantír at Orodruin was reflected as a large soap bubble some six feet in diameter. They could plainly see the unknown man turn the crystal around in his hands – huge images of hands moved around the surface of the ball, large and clear enough to read the palm lines.

“What’s happening, Gandalf? Explain!” The wizard in the blue cloak could remain silent no longer.

“Nothing. That’s the problem: nothing is happening.” Gandalf’s words had an even and lifeless quality. “My spell hasn’t worked. I don’t understand why.”

“Then it’s all over?”

“Yes. It is.” Silence reigned; everyone seemed to be listening to the sound of the last grains of sand streaming down the hourglass of their lives.

“Did you have a good time playing?” The voice that broke the silence was mocking, but still as beguiling as ever. “’History will vindicate me,’ eh?”

“Saruman?!”

The former head of the White Council was already heading into the hall with his firm wide stride, waiting for no permission or invitation, and everyone immediately felt that the term ‘former’ was absolutely inappropriate.

He looked intently at the rays of light emanating from the palantír. “Vakalabath’s prophecy, isn’t it, Radagast?” He addressed the forest wizard to the exclusion of all the other Council members. “Aha… this ray leads to Orodruin?”

“They want to destroy the Mirror,” a slightly revived Gandalf put in.

“Shut up,” Saruman told him without looking at him, and thrust his suddenly stone chin at the Lórien ray, which had just dimmed again: “There’s your Mirror – enjoy the sight, wannabe demiurge…”

“Can we help you, Saruman?” Radagast said soothingly, trying to mend bridges. “All our magic…”

“Yes, you can, by getting out of here immediately. Stick all your magic up your butts: haven’t you understood yet that the man on Orodruin is absolutely immune to magic? I will try reasoning with him logically, perhaps that will work… Move!” he yelled at the Council members milling uncertainly at the doors. “Get the hell out, I said! This place is going to blow so high, you’ll be collecting your balls for weeks!”

Paying no further attention to the quickly departing White wizards, he handled the palantír

to put it into ‘send-receive’ mode and called softly: “Haladdin! Doctor Haladdin, can you hear me? Please respond.”

Chapter 68

A few excruciatingly long seconds passed before a surprised voice sounded from the depths of the palantír: “I hear you! Who’s calling me?”

“I could have introduced myself as a nazgúl and you would have never known the lie, but I will not. I am Saruman, head of the White Council.”

“The former head…”

“No, present.” Saruman glanced over his shoulder at the white cloak abandoned by Gandalf in his haste lest the thing catch on something as he careened down the stairs. “For about three minutes already.” For a few seconds the palantír was silent.

“How do you know my name, Saruman?”

“There aren’t that many people in Middle Earth who are absolutely closed to magic. It stands to reason that the Nazgúl would pick one such to implement Vakalabath’s prophecy…”

“Pardon me?”

“There’s an obscure ancient prophecy saying that one not-so-wonderful day ‘magic will depart Middle Earth with the palantíri.’ The date of this event is encoded in a complicated manner; we have been combining the numbers in that prophecy and expecting this event at several dates, but so far it has not happened. Today is one of those days, and as I understand it, the Nazgúl have decided to use Vakalabath to destroy the palantíri and the Mirror – ‘the World is Text…’ You will now drop your palantír into Orodruin, the palantír in Lórien will burn the Mirror with Eternal Fire, and the magical world of Arda will perish forever.”

“Why would it perish?” the palantír asked after a second.

“Ah, I see. Apparently, you have dealt with Sharya-Rana, correct?”

“Why would you think so?” There was a hint of surprise in Haladdin’s voice.

“Because that is his theory of Arda’s make-up: two worlds, a ‘physical’ one and a ‘magical’ one, joined through the Mirror. The Elves, having crossed from the other world into this one, will unavoidably undermine its very existence with their magic, so the Mirror should be destroyed in order to isolate those worlds to their mutual benefit. Close enough?”

“Do you mean to say that it’s all a lie?” Haladdin responded coldly.

“Not at all! It is one of the theories of the World’s structure, but no more than that. Sharya- Rana, whom I respect greatly, held this theory, but to act in accordance with it…”

“What do the other theories say? Please tell me, esteemed Saruman; we still have time. When it’s time for me to drop the palantír into Orodruin, I’ll give you warning.”

“You are very gracious, Haladdin, thank you. Very well – the mainstream opinion is that the ‘physical’ and ‘magical’ worlds are indeed separate and the Mirror and the palantíri did indeed originate in the magical one, but they are not here, in the physical world, by chance. Those crystals constitute the very foundation of that other world’s existence, like that fairy- tale needle – remember, the one hidden in an egg which is hidden in a duck which is hidden in a hare which is hidden in a chest? By destroying the Mirror with the palantíri you will simply destroy the entire magical world. The irony is that they have been placed in this non- magical world precisely for safekeeping, just like the chest in the fairy tale. Of course, you might say that these are that other magical world’s problems for which you care not. I have to disappoint you – the worlds are symmetrical.” “You mean to say,” Haladdin spoke slowly, “that there’s something which is the basis of our world’s existence that’s been placed for safekeeping in that other, magical world? Our own needle in an egg and so forth?”

“Precisely. By destroying the other world you will doom ours. Sometimes twins are born conjoined; obviously, if one kills the other, he, too, will soon die of blood poisoning. When you drop the palantír into Orodruin’s maw, the other world will perish instantly, while this one will start dying a long and painful death. Nobody knows how long this dying will last – a minute, a year, a century – would you like to find out?”

“That’s if you’re right and Sharya-Rana is wrong.”

“Certainly. Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct? A radical experiment, as they call it in your circles?”

The palantír was silent – Haladdin was at a loss for words.

“Listen, Haladdin,” Saruman continued with apparent curiosity, “have you really started all this to put the Elves in their place? Aren’t you overestimating their importance?”

“Something like this is better to overdo.”

“Then you do believe that the Elves are about to control the entire Middle Earth? My dear doctor, this is bizarre! Whatever the Elves’ capabilities are – and they are greatly exaggerated by rumor, believe me – there’s only about fifteen thousand of them, perhaps twenty thousand, in the entire Middle Earth. Think about it – a few thousand, and there will be no more; while there are millions of Men, and their numbers keep growing. Believe me that Men are already strong enough not to be afraid of Elves; this is some kind of an inferiority complex on your part!..”

Saruman continued after a pause: “Sharya-Rana is correct that our Arda is unique: it is the only World which allows direct contact between the physical and magical worlds, where their inhabitants – Elves and Men – can talk to each other. Just think of the possibilities this offers! In a very short time you and the Elves will live together in harmony, enriching each other with your cultural achievements.”

“Live as directed by the Far West?” Haladdin smirked.

“That depends on you. Do you really lack minimal self-respect, enough to think yourselves clay in the hands of some otherworldly forces? I’m honestly ashamed to hear this.”

“So a time will come when the Elves will look at Men as something other than dung under their feet? I wish I could believe you!”

“There was a time when Men would eat anyone not from their cave, but now you have learned to behave a little differently, haven’t you? That’s exactly how it will be with you and the Elves, if you give it time. You are so very different, and that’s precisely what makes you need each other, believe me.” The palantír fell silent; Haladdin slumped as if a rod had been taken out of his spine.

“Who’s that, sir?” Tzerlag, standing some ten paces away, lower on the slope, looked at the crystal with superstitious fear.

“Saruman, Lord of Isengard, Head of the White Council, and so on and so forth… He’s trying to talk me out of dropping the palantír into the Eternal Fire, lest the whole world perish.”

“Is he lying?”

“I think so,” Haladdin answered after some thought.

In reality he was not sure of that at all; the opposite, in fact. Saruman could very well have said something like “the Nazgúl have lost the fight and decided to destroy the world with your hands on their way out” and persuasively corroborate that theory (how did Haladdin know that the Nazgúl were the good guys? Only from Sharya-Rana’s words); he could, but he did not, and somehow that fact made Haladdin trust everything the White Wizard was saying. “Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct?” Yes, that’s how it comes out.

He has succeeded, Haladdin realized with horror. I have doubts, and therefore I have lost the right to act: to interpret doubt for the defendant’s benefit is too deeply ingrained in me. To do what I intended while knowing of the possible consequences (which I now do, thanks to Saruman) one has to be either God or a madman, and I’m neither. Nor can I do it and say later that I was following orders – that’s not my style… Plus you really don’t want to fry that Elvish beauty with your own hands, right? Right, I don’t, to put it mildly – is that a plus or a minus?

Forgive me, guys… forgive me, Sharya-Rana, and you, Baron! (In his mind he went down on his knees.) Everything you’ve done has been for naught. I know that I’m betraying you and your memory, but the choice I have to make is beyond me… or any Man – only the One can make such a choice. All I can do is block my palantír from transmitting and drop it into Orodruin; let what may come do so without my participation. I’m not cut out to decide the fate of the World – I’m made from a different kind of clay… and should you want to say: from crap, not clay – I accept that.

As if to confirm this decision of his, the palantír suddenly lit up from the inside and showed him the interior of some tower with narrow windows, something resembling a low table on curved legs, and a deathly pale – and somehow even more beautiful for that – face of Eornis.

Chapter 69

It is truly amazing what trifles change the course of history sometimes. In this case the matter was decided by the interruption of blood flow to Haladdin’s left calf muscle due to the uncomfortable position he had assumed over the past few minutes. The doctor got a cramp in his leg; when he got up awkwardly and leaned over to relieve the pain in his calf, the smooth globe of the palantír fell out of his hand and rolled slowly down the crater’s almost-level outer slope. Tzerlag, who stood a little below, interpreted his commander’s muffled oath as an order and lunged at the crystal ball…

“No-o-o-o-o!!” The frantic yell shattered the silence.

Too late.

The Orocuen grabbed the palantír and froze in an awkward pose; his body shimmered with bluish-purple sparks, as if frosted. Desperately Haladdin rushed to his comrade and knocked the devil’s toy out of his hands without thinking, in one motion; it took him a couple of seconds to realize with astonishment that it had not harmed him.

The purple sparks went out, leaving a strange frosty smell behind, and the Orocuen fell slowly sideways onto the gravel; Haladdin heard a strange clunking sound. He tried to lift the sergeant and was amazed by his body’s weight.

“Doctor, what’s happening to me?” The Orocuen’s face, usually expressionless or smiling, showed fear and bewilderment. “Can’t feel my hands or feet… at all… what’s happening?”

Haladdin took his wrist but jerked his hand back in surprise: the Orocuen’s hand was cold and hard as stone… Merciful God, it is stone! A couple of fingers on Tzerlag’s other hand broke off in the fall, and the doctor was now looking at the fresh break shimmering with tiny crystals – snow-white porous calcite of the bones and the darkly pink marble of the muscles shot with bright-red garnet of blood vessels – and marveling at the astonishing exactness of this stony imitation. The Orocuen’s neck and shoulders were still warm and living; feeling the arm, Haladdin realized that the boundary between stone and flesh was a bit higher than the elbow, slowly moving up the biceps. He was about to utter some comforting lie like ‘a temporary loss of sensation due to an electrical discharge,’ concealing the nature of the problem with fancy medical terminology, but the sergeant had already noticed his mangled hand and understood everything.

“Don’t leave me like this, hear? The strike of mercy – now’s the time…”

“What happened, Haladdin?” the palantír came to life with Saruman’s alarmed voice.

“What happened?! My friend is turning to stone, that’s what! Your work, bastards?”

“He touched the palantír?! Why did you let him…”

“Devil take you! Lift the spell right now, you hear?”

“I can’t do that. It’s not my spell – why would I need to do that? – and it’s impossible to lift someone else’s spell, even for me. It must have been how my stupid predecessors have tried to stop you.”

“I don’t care who did it! Do what you can or else drag the one who did it over to your palantír!”

“They’re all gone already… I regret this deeply, but I can do nothing for your friend even at the cost of my own life.”

“Listen, Saruman.” Haladdin managed to get hold of himself, realizing that yelling would accomplish nothing. “It looks like my friend will turn to stone in five or six minutes. If you manage to lift the spell during that time, I’ll do what you’re asking me to do: block this palantír‘s transmission and throw it into Orodruin. How to do it is your problem, but if you can’t, I’ll do what I intended to do, although, to be honest, you’ve almost convinced me otherwise. Well?”

“Be reasonable, Haladdin! Would you destroy a whole World – two Worlds, actually – to save one man? It won’t even save him when he dies later together with the World…”

“I don’t give a shit about your worlds, understand?! For the last time – will you try or not?”

“I can only repeat what I’ve said before to those idiots of the White Council: ‘What you are about to do is worse than a crime. It is a mistake.’”

“Oh yeah? Then I’m dropping my ball into the crater! Run like hell if you can! You can figure yourself how many seconds you’ve got – I’ve never been good at figuring in my head…”

Wolverine, lieutenant of the Secret Guard, was also facing a difficult choice at about the same time.

He had already reached the shores of the Anduin and had a good chance of getting to the boat that would save him when the Elves dogging his heels managed to chase him onto a kurum – a boulder-strewn slope that the real wolverines favor for their lairs. Trying to take a shortcut, the lieutenant ran straight across the kurum, leaping from boulder to boulder. It is most important to maintain one’s momentum and never stop when moving like that – jump and bounce, jump and bounce. This is not too difficult in dry weather, but now, after several days of rain, the lichens covering every boulder with black and orange spots were water- logged, and every spot was mortally dangerous.

Wolverine had barely made it through a half of the slope when he realized that the pursuers were closer than he thought: arrows began falling around him. Those arrows arrived on high trajectories at the very end of their range, but the lieutenant knew too much of the Elves’ skill – the best archers in Middle Earth – not to steal a glance backwards. After another leap he pushed off a large stone with his left foot while turning to the left – and that was when the soggy lichen, slippery as the proverbial banana peel, gave way under his Mordorian boot (I knew this hard-soled footwear would fail me!) and Wolverine was thrown to the right into a narrowing crevice. His breaking fingernails left rips across the lichen spots on the boulder, but could not hold him. A stupid thought flitted across the lieutenant’s mind – “wish I were a real wolverine” – right before his right ankle, stuck in the crevice like in a steel trap, cracked and shot a bolt of pain through his spine, knocking him out. …Strangely, his unconsciousness had lasted a very short time. Wolverine managed to prop himself up in the crevice so as to rest his weight on the uninjured leg. Now he could move his backpack over his head and in front of him. The sheaf of Dol Guldur papers had a bottle of fire jelly attached to it (praise Grizzly for thinking of everything!), so all he had to do now was strike a flint on the ignition charge – an air-tight porcelain bottle filled with the light fraction of naphtha. Only after untying the strap of the backpack and locating the flint in his pocket did he think to look around, leaning back (it was impossible to turn around) just in time to see column-like figures in gray-green cloaks kind of slowly falling on him from the pale noon sky. With mere meters separating him from the pursing Elves, the lieutenant knew with certainty that of the two duties left to him in this life – setting off the ignition charge and chewing the green pill of salvation – he only had time to perform one, and an officer of Task Force Féanor should know which one took priority… So it was that the last sight Wolverine saw before a blow to the head knocked him out was that of the bluish naphtha flame licking the slightly frayed saltpeter-soaked fire cord.

He came to in a large clearing with a good view of the valley of the Great River. His hands were tied behind his back, his Mordorian uniform was all singed tatters, and the entire left side of his body was one large burn – the device worked, praise Aulë! Belatedly he saw an Elf squatting to the left of him, on the side of the eye almost covered with dried lymph. The Elf was disgustedly wiping his flask with a rag – apparently, he had just been pouring Elvish wine down the prisoner’s throat.

“You awake?” the Elf inquired in a melodious voice.

“Mordor and the Eye!” Wolverine responded automatically (imagine dying as an Orc! Well, them’s the breaks…)

“Quit pretending, dear ally!” The Firstborn was smiling, but his eyes burned with such hatred that his vertical cat’s pupils narrowed into tiny slits. “You are going to tell us everything about those strange games of His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, aren’t you, beastie? There shouldn’t be any secrets between allies.”

“Mordor… and… the Eye…” The lieutenant’s voice was still even, although Manwe only knew the effort it took: the Elf had casually dropped his hand to the prisoner’s broken ankle and…

“Sir Engold, look! What’s that?!”

At the cry of his comrades the Elf turned around and stared, frozen, at something resembling a colossal dandelion swiftly grow to the sky beyond the Anduin, right where Caras Galadhon ought to be – a thin blinding-white stalk crowned with a bright-red bulbous ‘flower.’ Almighty Eru, if this thing is indeed in Galadhon, how huge must it be? What Galadhon? There’s probably not even ashes left there… A strangled cry made him turn back: “Sir Engold, the prisoner! What’s happening to him?..”

Fast as he turned back, it was all over before he could see it happen. The prisoner was dead and no physician was necessary to confirm that. In a few moments, right under the gaze of the astonished Elves, the man had turned into a skeleton covered here and there in remnants of mummified skin. The brown-yellow skull, its eye sockets filled with sand, grinned at Engold from between shrunken blackened lips, as if mockingly inviting him to ask his questions – immerse me in the truth potion, perhaps that will help?

And in the palace in Minas Tirith Aragorn watched in astonishment the subtle changes taking place in the face of Arwen, seated across from him. Nothing seemed to change, really, but he felt with absolute certainty that something important, perhaps the most important, was going, slipping away like a blissful morning dream slips from memory… some magical incompleteness of her features, which became completely human. When this metamorphosis was over in a few moments, he reached a verdict summing up that period of his life: a beautiful woman, no question about it. Very beautiful, even. But that’s all.

None of his subjects saw that, nor would they have ascribed any importance to it had they seen it. What they did dutifully reflect in the chronicles of that day was another event of that noon: when the Mirror was destroyed in Lórien, the other six palantíri remaining in Middle Earth detonated, too, and a monstrous geyser almost half a mile high shot up from the Anduin-receiving Bay of Belfalas. The geyser spawned a forty-foot tsunami that wiped out several fishing villages together with their inhabitants; it is doubtful that anyone recognized that those unfortunates, too, were victims of the War of the Ring.

The most surprising thing is that despite his powers of observation and insight His Majesty Elessar Elfstone had not connected those two events that happened at noon of August the first of the Year 3019 of the Third Age and in a sense became its final moment, either. For sure, no one after him had ever connected them, having had no opportunity to do so.

“Bend the arm, quick!” Haladdin ordered, tightening the tourniquet above Tzerlag’s left elbow. “Keep the rag pressed there, lest you bleed out.”

The sergeant’s hand ‘unfroze’ the moment the volcano swallowed the palantír, so now his blood gushed like it always does when a man loses a couple of fingers. They had no means to stop the bleeding other than the tourniquet: it turned out that the blood-clotting medicines from the Elvish medkit, including the legendary mandrake root (which reputedly could even patch a severed artery), have stopped working entirely. Who would have thought that this was magic, too?

“Listen… so we won, right?”

“Yes, dammit! If it can be called victory…”

“I don’t understand, Field Medic, sir…” it seemed that the sergeant’s lips, gray with blood loss, had trouble obeying him. “What does ‘if it can be called victory’ mean?”

Don’t you dare, Haladdin told himself. That had been my decision; I have no right to burden anyone else with it, not even Tzerlag, not even a tiny bit. He should not even suspect what he had just witnessed and indirectly caused, for his own good. Let all this remain our Dagor-Dagorlad to him – a victorious Dagor-Dagorlad… “What I mean is… The thing is, not a soul in Middle Earth will believe in our victory. No victory parades, you know? Mark my words: the Elves and the Men from beyond the Anduin will find a way to paint themselves as the victors, anyway.”

The Orocuen nodded and held still for a moment, as if listening to the slowly subsiding growl of the Fire Mountain. “Yeah. That’s how it’s gonna be, no doubt. But what do we care?”