The Last Ringbearer (26 page)

Since then, the fearsome Harad Empire (which had neither a written language nor cities, but plenty of ritual cannibalism, dire black magic, and witch-hunting) had widened its borders considerably. At first the black warriors expanded only to the south and east, but in the last twenty years or so they have turned their gaze north and bit off a significant chunk of Khandian territory, approaching closely to the borders of Umbar, South Gondor, and Ithilien. The Mordorian ambassador at the Emperor’s court sent dispatch after dispatch to Barad-dúr: unless swift measures are taken, soon the civilized states of Central and Western Middle Earth will face an opponent more terrifying than any other – untold multitudes of excellent warriors who know neither fear nor mercy.

Therefore, relying on a Khandian saying ‘the only way to get rid of crocodiles is to drain the swamp,’ Mordor began sending missionaries South. Those did not bother the blacks with sermons about the One too much, rather spending their time treating sick children and teaching them arithmetic and reading, for which purpose they invented a written version of the Haradi language based on the Common alphabet. When one of its creators, a Reverend Aljuno, read the first text created by a little Southron (it was a description of a lion hunt, remarkable in its poetic qualities), he knew that he had not lived for naught.

It would be an obvious exaggeration to say that these activities have resulted in a noticeable tempering of the local mores. However, the missionaries themselves enjoyed an almost religious reverence, and the word ‘Mordor’ elicited the most white-toothed of smiles from any Southron. Besides, Harad (unlike some ‘civilized’ countries) had never suffered from selective memory loss; everybody there knew full well who had helped them against the Khandian slavers. That was why Emperor Fasimba the Third immediately responded to the Mordorian ambassador’s request for help against the Western Coalition with a select force of cavalry and
múmakil
– the very Harad battalion that fought so valiantly on the Pelennor Fields under the scarlet Snake banner.

Only a few black men survived that battle, including the cavalry commander, the famous Captain Umglangan. Ever since that day he had a recurrent vision, bright as day: two ranks facing each other in portentous silence upon a strange blue savannah, fifteen yards apart – the range of the
assegai
; both are comprised of the best warriors of all times, but the right line lacks one fighter. It’s time to start, but for some reason Udugvu the Fearsome has pity on Umglangan and is delaying the signal to begin this best of men’s amusements – where are you, Captain? Take your place in the rank quickly! … What is a warrior to do when his heart calls him to the foot of Udugvu’s black basalt throne while the commander’s duty orders him to report to his Emperor? It was a hard choice, but he chose Duty, and now, after surviving a thousand dangers, he has already reached the borders of Harad.

He is bringing sad news to Fasimba: the men of the North who were like brothers to the Haradrim have fallen in battle, and now there is nobody but enemies in the Northern lands. But this is wonderful, in a way – now there are so many battles and glorious victories ahead! He had seen the warriors of the West in action, and there’s no way they will withstand the black fighters when those are an army rather than a small volunteer battalion under the scarlet banner. He will report that the cavalry gap which had so concerned them is no more: not so long ago the Haradrim didn’t know how to fight on horseback, and now they had acquitted themselves well against the best cavalry of the West. Nor do the Westerners know anything about Haradi infantry yet; of all he had seen there only the Trolls could possibly match it, and now no one. And the
múmakil
are the
múmakil
– the closest thing to an absolute weapon. Had we not lost twenty of them in that cursed forest ambush, who knows how the tide might have turned at the Pelennor Fields? They’re afraid of fire arrows? Not a problem, we’ll take care of that when training calves. The West had chosen its fate when it crushed Mordor which stood between it and the Haradrim.

Mbanga the driver was concerned with a problem much less global in scope. Despite having no knowledge of mathematics, ever since that morning he had been working on a fairly complicated planimetric problem which Engineer Second Class Kumai (had he known about his partner’s plans) would have described as ‘minimization of the sum of two variable distances’ – from Mbanga to the overseer and from the overseer to the edge of the quarry. Of course, he is not Umglangan’s equal to count on a place in the ranks of the best warriors of all times, but if he manages to die as planned, then Udugvu in his boundless mercy will allow him to forever hunt lions in his heavenly savannah. Carrying out the plan was not going to be easy, though. Mbanga, weakened by six weeks of near-starvation and hard labor, intended to kill with his bare hands a large man, armed to the teeth and far from absent-minded, in less than twenty seconds; if he took any longer than that, the other warders would reach him and whip him to death: a piteous slave’s demise …

It happened so quickly that even Kumai missed Mbanga’s first move. He saw only a black lightning hitting the overseer’s legs – the Southron crouched as if to adjust his shackles and suddenly lunged headfirst; so does a deadly tree mamba strike its prey, penetrating a tangle of branches with astonishing precision. The black man’s right shoulder struck the overseer’s leg full force exactly under the kneecap; Kumai imagined actually hearing the wet crunch of the joint sack tearing and the delicate cartilage menisci snapping out of their sockets. The Gondorian sagged down without even a moan in pain shock; in a blink of an eye the Southron slung the unconscious man over his shoulder and hurried towards the precipice at a fast shackle trot. Mbanga beat the guards converging on him from all directions by a good thirty yards; having reached the coveted edge, he tossed his burden down into the shining white abyss and was now calmly awaiting his enemies, captured sword in hand.

Of course, none of those Western carrion-eaters dared cross blades with him – they simply showered him with arrows. This, however, was of no importance: he had managed to die in battle, weapon in hand, earning the right to throw the first
assegai
in the heavenly lion hunt. What’s three arrows in the gut compared to such eternal bliss?

The Haradrim always die smiling, and this smile boded nothing good for the Western countries, as some far-sighted men were already beginning to guess.

CHAPTER 34

B 
astard’s dead!” the huge blond overseer concluded disappointedly after carefully crushing Mbanga’s fingers with his heel (no reaction); then he trained his bloodshot eyes on Kumai, standing motionless to the side. “But devil take me,” he tossed his whip from one hand to another, “if his buddy won’t pay with his whole hide for Ernie right now …”

Kumai instinctively blocked the first blow with his elbow, immediately losing a patch of skin. Roaring with pain, he lunged at the blond man, and then four others joined the fun. They beat him for a long time, attentively and with a great deal of inventiveness, until it became clear that further action was useless on the insensible Troll. Well, whaddya think – someone has to pay for the dead overseer or what?

By then the guard chief showed up, yelled: “Enough fun!” and chased them all back to their posts – he certainly didn’t want another deader on his report. See, the deal’s like this: if this animal kicks the bucket right here, then he’ll have to deal with the master of the works (a major asshole), but if it happens later, in the barracks, then it’s gonna be a ‘natural loss’ and no questions asked … He nodded for the nearest bunch of prisoners who had watched the beating fearfully to come over, and a short time later Kumai was sprawled on rotten straw in his barrack. Anyone with experience could tell at a glance that this half-corpse covered in tatters of bloody skin was not for this world for much longer. A couple of months prior the Troll managed to cheat death after heavy injury in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, but that seemed to have used up his luck.

When Éomer’s riders broke through the South Army’s defenses and panic ensued, Engineer Second Class Kumai was cut off north of the camp, at the siege engine park. Seven more engineers were bottled up with him; being the senior there, he had to assume command. Not being an expert on either strategy or tactics, he saw just one thing clearly: in a few minutes all the abandoned machinery would be captured, so the only thing left was to destroy it. The Troll established order in his company with an iron hand (one of the seven who blurted something like “run for your lives!” remained lying senseless by a bunch of assault ladders) and ascertained that at least they had enough naphtha, the One be praised. In a minute his subordinates rushed all around like ants, pouring it over the catapults and the bases of siege towers, while he hurried to the ‘gates’ – the gap in the ring of wagons surrounding the park – and ran smack into a forward troop of Rohirrim.

The mounted warriors treated the suddenly appearing lonely Mordorian without due respect, and paid for it. Kumai was strong even by Trollish standards (once at a student party he had walked a window ledge with dead-drunk Haladdin slumped in an armchair held in his outstretched arms), so his weapon of choice right then was a large wagon shaft that came to hand. Only one of the four riders managed to back off in time; the rest fell where they met that monstrous spinner.

Even so the Rohirrim were not discouraged much. Six more riders materialized out of the deepening gloom and formed a semi-circle bristling with spears. Kumai first tried to block the way with one of the wagons, turning it by the rear axle, but saw that he would not be in time. Stepping back a little and keeping the enemies in sight, he called over his shoulder: “Burn it, by damn!”

“We’re not done, sir!” someone responded from behind, “the large catapults are still dry!”

“Fire what you can! The Westerners are here already!” he roared, and then addressed the battle-ready Rohirrim in Common: “Hey, who’s not a coward? Who’ll meet this mountain Troll in honest battle?”

It worked! The rank broke, and a few seconds later a dismounted warrior wearing the white plumage of a cornet stood before him: “Are you ready, fair sir?” Kumai grabbed the pole by the middle, made a quick forward lunge – and found the Rohir less than two yards away; the only thing that saved the Troll was that the light Rohan blade could not cut through the pole which took the brunt of the blow. The engineer hastily backed inside the park, trying to gain precious seconds, but was unable to break away: the cornet was fleet as a ferret, and Kumai’s chances with his clumsy weapon were about zero in close quarters. “Fire and run like hell!” he yelled, seeing clearly that he himself was finished. Indeed, the next moment the world exploded in a white flash of blinding pain and instantly faded into comforting darkness. The cornet’s blow split his helmet clean apart, so he never saw how the very next second everything around him turned into a sea of flames – his people did manage to finish the job … A few seconds later the Rohirrim, backing away from the heat, saw their reckless officer trudge from the depths of that roaring furnace, bent under the weight of the unconscious Troll. “What the hell, cornet?” “I must know the name of this fair sir! He’s a captive of my spear, after all …”

Kumai came to only three days later in a Rohani hospital tent, lying side by side with the three riders he had felled; the steppe warriors made no distinction between the wounded and treated them all equally. Unfortunately, in this case it meant ‘equally bad:’ the engineer’s head was in sorry shape, but the only medicine he got during that time was a skin of wine brought by Cornet Jorgen who had captured him. The cornet voiced hope that once the Engineer Second Class was healed he would honor him with another fight, preferably with a weapon more traditional than a pole. Certainly he can be free within the confines of the camp, on his word as an officer … However, a week later the Rohirrim left on the Mordorian campaign, to win the crown of the Reunited Kingdom for Aragorn, and that same day Kumai and all the other wounded prisoners were sent to the Mindolluin quarry. Unlike the backward Rohan, Gondor was already a civilized country …

How he managed to survive those first hellish days, with a busted head and a concussion that kept plunging him into pits of unconsciousness, was a total enigma; most likely it was simply Trollish stubbornness, to spite the jailers. All the same, Kumai had no illusions regarding his fate. In his time, as required by tradition of well-off Trollish families, Kumai had followed the entire career path of a worker in his father’s mines at Tzagan-Tzab, from miner to surveyor’s assistant. He knew enough about mining to understand that no one was concerned with economics here; they were sent to Mindolluin to die, rather than earn the quarry owners some profit. The daily food-to-production-quota ratio for Mordorian prisoners was such as to be bald-faced ‘killing on an installment plan.’

By the third week, when some prisoners were already dead and the others managed to more or less adapt to this murderous cadence (what else could they do?), an Elvish inspection team swooped in. What shame, what barbarity! those folks carried on. Isn’t it obvious that these people are capable of a lot more than driving wheel-barrows? There are plenty of experts in all kinds of trades here – take them and use them properly, damn it! The Gondorian bosses scratched their heads abashedly: “our bad, your eminences!” and conducted a skill survey right away. As a result, a few dozen lucky ones traded the hell of Mindolluin for work in their chosen fields, leaving the quarry forever.

Whatever, the One be their judge … As for himself, Kumai did not think it proper to buy his life by building heavier-than-air aircraft for the enemy (that being his trade): some things are not to be done because they must not be done, period. An escape from Mindolluin was obviously a pipe dream, and he saw no other ways to get out of there. In the meantime, undernourishment was doing its work – he became more and more apathetic. It is hard to say how long he would have lasted in this mode – maybe a week, maybe even six months (but almost certainly not a year) – were it not for Mbanga, the One rest his soul, who managed to slam the door on his way out so spectacularly as to also solve all of Kumai’s problems once and for all.