The Last Ringbearer (46 page)

Formally their chief was Jageddin – the famed master of chemistry, optics, and electrical mechanics from the Barad-dúr 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; perhaps one of the northern Trolls that used to live in the Misty Mountains until gradually assimilating into Dunlendings and Angmarians?

Kumai met the commandant immediately upon his arrival at the fortress (the Superintendent’s people got him there in stages along the Dol Guldur highway – they turned out to have regular service there, running convoys almost every other day). Grizzly interrogated him for several hours, going through Kumai’s entire life history with maniacal attention to detail; about the only thing he did not ask him about were his first girlfriend’s sexual tastes. Childhood, school, military service; names and dates, specifications of flying machines and the habits of his university drinking buddies, 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 3
^rd
3014, the sky was overcast. Are you sure? … What’s the name of the bartender at the Achigidel Bar, across from the University? Oh, 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 make it so complicated? But 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 such as 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 freshly handwritten sheets, summing up concisely: “If they’re alive, we’ll find them,” and Kumai felt with certainty – these guys will.

“Please change, Engineer Second Class.” Grizzly indicated with a glance 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). “Come, 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 twenty-yard span of its wings, straight and narrow like an Elvish sword, 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 legendary
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 handle.

Four Isengard ‘blasting fire’ engineers 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, called Wolverine and resembling a Dunland highlander, 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 rather 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, to put it midly – plus or minus two hundred yards. Also, one time a ‘flying drop’ exploded right in the launching 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.

Still, not three days after the accident the catapult drivers invited 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; yet 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’ obtained 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.”

“Listen, 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, 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, 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 apprentice who’s never held a weapon before can wipe his nose on his sleeve, take aim from a hundred yards, and say 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 understand why it’s noble to knock someone’s brains out with a sword but vile to do it with a crossbow bolt.”)

But the steel crossbows with ‘distance glasses,’ the ‘flying drops,’ even incendiary shells dropped from the sky all paled next to their unseen bosses’ 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 queasy: 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 that 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 team 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 noticed the man walking the road from the direction of Mirkwood when he was about thirty yards away. Discerning 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 … 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 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 try 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 hidden
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. Chances are they’ll peg me as a psycho, not even a spy. They’ll probably let me into the castle (poison experts aren’t easy to come by) but they won’t ever 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, dear friend … I have no right to tell you the nature of the mission, 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’ll 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 mess, there’s no confirming 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

T 
here’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 in constant readiness, 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 in 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 those involuntary thoughts when a week ago haggard Faramir handed him the
mithril
coat: “… and 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 trail and followed them inexorably, like wolves follow a wounded deer. At least now he knows the exact price of his life: forty silver marks that he did not stint on paying Runcorn; were it 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, shot to kill, and there’s no atoning for that …