shooting
soon... yes, like that, relax and meditate... like that...
He was lying flat on the cold sand, minutely examining the sentry's silhouette. No helmet
(and rightly so, can't hear anything in one of those things), so best aim for the head.
Interesting, huh? -- here's a man standing, looking at the stars, thinking of pleasant (to him)
things, not knowing that he's already dead. Meanwhile the `dead' man looked enviously at
his seven buddies by the fire (three to the south, three to the north, one to the west, between
the fire and the slope), and then turned away furtively, produced a flask, took a swig,
belched and wiped his lips noisily. Great!.. quite sloppy... wonder how his northern
counterpart would like that? Suddenly Haladdin's heart lurched and dropped somewhere
into the void: it's begun! Begun quite a while ago, too, while he, the idiot! had almost
missed it, just like the baron, another simpleton... For the northern sentry was already
sagging lifelessly to the ground, resting in Tzerlag's firm embrace. Another moment, and
the scout carefully and silently put the Easterling's body down on the sand and flowed, like a
fox into a rabbit hutch, into the circle of light filled with sleeping forms.
Slowly, as if in a dream, Haladdin rose to one knee and drew the bow; in the corner of his
right eye he saw the baron, crouching for a lunge. The sentry must have seen some
movement in the dark after all, but instead of shouting an alarm he started (imagine such
lucky stupidity!) reflexively putting away the illegal flask. The moment of delay was
enough for Haladdin to pull the butt of the arrow to his chin and habitually drop the aim an
inch below the target -- the clearly backlit head of the sentry; twenty paces, a stationary
target, even a baby won't miss. He did not even feel the pain of the bowstring slamming his
left arm, for it was immediately followed by the dry and loud, as if into wood, thwack of the
arrow hitting home. The Easterling threw up his hands -- the unlucky flask still clutched in
one -- turned on a heel and slowly dropped. The baron sprinted forward and was already
past the dead man when a muffled cry sounded from the fire -- the sergeant's scimitar
slammed into one of the three men lying to the north of the fire, and the silence immediately
shattered into a thousand screaming, howling shards.
     Haladdin followed his orders by circling the camp, staying outside the circle of light and
yelling in different voices: "Surround them, guys, let no sumbitch escape!" and suchlike.
Instead of scattering, the sleep-addled mercenaries instinctively stayed by the fire. On the
southern approach Tangorn hit three of them; one immediately folded, clutching his
stomach, and the baron snatched his sword -- a wide and, Tulkas be praised, straight one --
tossing away the scimitar he had to use initially. The light of the fire fell on his face, and the
two remaining Easterlings abruptly dropped their weapons and ran off, screaming: "Gheu,
gheu!" (a kind of vampire into which unburied dead are supposed to turn). Surprised,
Haladdin was slow to open up on them and apparently missed both -- in any event, they
vanished into the darkness. In the commotion Tzerlag had wounded another `northern'
Easterling and was now calling out from the side: "Hey, Eloar, you coward, where are you?
I came to you to exact the blood-price of Teshgol!"
     "I'm here, you spawn of Morgoth," a scornful voice replied, "Come over, I'll scratch you
behind the ears!" and, addressing his troops now: "No panic, carrion eaters! There're only
three of them, we'll do them like babies! Kill the slanted-eyes, he's the chief, and stay away
from their archer!"
     The Elf appeared beside the fire on the right -- tall, golden-haired, clad in light leather armor --
his every move and every feature conveying a bewitching impression of sinuous deadly
power. He resembled his sword -- a thin shimmering ray of bluish starlit ice, the very look
of it sent shivers through Haladdin. Tzerlag swung his scimitar with a hoarse cry -- a feint to
the face and an immediate right arc to the knee; Eloar parried the blow casually, and even a
field medic (second class) knew right away that the sergeant has bitten off more than he
could chew. The master of stealth and infiltration has met a master of the sword, and the
only question now was whether he'd be finished off in two or three thrusts. Tangorn
understood it best, so he raced across the fifteen yards separating him from the fight in a
flash and laid into the Elf from the left, yelling at the haphazardly retreating scout: "Cover
my back, dumbass!"
     A professional at work (no matter what profession) is always fascinating to watch, and here
there were two pros of the highest caliber. Too bad that all of the few spectators were too
busy with their own affairs to admire the show -- mostly they were trying to kill each other,
which takes a certain amount of concentration. Nevertheless both partners put their all into
their work, their tightly choreographed moves fitting precisely in the gaps of the deadly lace
being crocheted by their shining blades. Tangorn's remark about covering his back was
quite a propos -- the sergeant immediately had to take on the two remaining Easterlings, one
of whom was thankfully lame. Haladdin, armed only with a bow, was under strict orders not
to get into the melee or even get out of the dark; firing on that tangle of friend and foe would
be sheer madness, so he milled around the edges looking for a good target.
In a short while it became obvious that Tangorn was winning. Although his sword was a
good three inches shorter, he managed to pink his opponent twice, in the right arm and
above the knee. It is known that the Elves do not handle blood loss well, and Eloar's thrusts
were losing their swift precision with every moment; the baron crowded him, calmly waiting
for the right moment for the decisive blow, when something inexplicable happened. The
Elvish blade suddenly wavered and pointed aside, opening up Eloar's trunk, and, lightning-
fast, the Gondorian's blade immediately struck him in the lower chest. Haladdin swallowed
involuntarily, expecting the blade to come out of the Elf's back steaming with blood -- no
mail could have stopped that thrust, let alone leather armor. But Tangorn's blade bounced
off the leather as if it was enchanted, and the Elf, who clearly expected just that, grabbed his
sword with both hands and immediately delivered a terrible hacking top-down blow. The
baron could neither evade nor parry. He only had time to drop to one knee and catch Eloar's
sword with his -- `point against point;' shoddy Eastern steel shattered like glass, and the
Elvish blade went into his thigh by almost a third. Tangorn managed to roll away from the
next, pinning blow, but the Elf caught up with him in one stride and... And that was when
Haladdin, figuring that he had nothing to wait for any more, let fly.
Later he realized that he had performed an impossible feat. The doctor had never been a
good shot with a bow, and knew nothing of running shots, especially at a moving target, and
especially since Tzerlag and the two Easterlings he was fighting were between him and
Eloar. But the fact remains: he had shot without aiming and his arrow hit Eloar right in the
eye, so that the Elf died, as the saying goes, "before his body hit the ground."

     <h3>Chapter 12</h3>

     The fire was almost out by then, but the fight went on in the dark. Both Easterlings kept
attacking Tzerlag non-stop; twice did Haladdin fire on them when they broke off for a
moment, and twice -- for shame! -- he missed. Finally the lame Easterling let another thrust
through; dropping the sword, he fell down to his knees and crawled away, dragging the
wounded leg and moaning. Haladdin almost let him go -- plenty more to deal with -- but was
lucky enough to notice that the man had crawled up to one of the packs and has already
fished out a bow; reaching into his own quiver, he found only one arrow and shivered. They
both aimed at once, but the doctor's nerves failed and he let fly and jumped sideways,
hearing the deadly hiss pass a foot and a half left of his stomach. The Easterling was less
lucky: after his shot he could not evade and was now lying flat on his back with Haladdin's
arrow under the collarbone. Meanwhile Tzerlag managed to trick his opponent into opening
up and struck him in the neck; the Orocuen's face was now covered with sticky droplets, and
his arm was fairly dripping. So, is that all of them? Victory, dammit...
Haladdin lost no time throwing more wood into the fire; then he sat so as not to block the
light and cut open Tangorn's sticky pant leg with a single practiced movement. There was
quite a lot of blood, but not too much for such a deep wound. At least the main thigh artery
is intact; thank the One that Elvish swords are so narrow, like a third of the Easterling width.
All right, a tourniquet... now a tampon... The sergeant went around the campsite, finished
off the two Easterlings that showed signs of life, and crouched beside the field medic.
     "Whaddya say, doctor?"
     "Well, could've been worse. The bone is intact, so are most sinews, as far as I can see, as
are the main blood vessels. Hand me that rag."
     "Here you go. Can he walk?"
     "Are you kidding?"
     "Then," the sergeant got up wearily and for some reason carefully shook the sand from his
knees, "it's all over, guys. Two of them got away, and there's no sense in chasing them in
this dark. They'll make that highway outpost before dawn, there's no way they can get lost --
just hurry north along the edge of the hamada. Soon as it dawns, they'll be back with a
dragnet search, get it?"
     Tangorn suddenly raised himself on an elbow; Haladdin realized with horror that he had
been fully conscious while they were busy with his wound. The firelight clearly showed the
baron's face, shining with sweat, but his voice was just as steady, even if a little hoarse:
     "Don't worry, guys. After all, I was supposed to be dead two days ago; were I to play this
round again, I'd use this break in the same way..." With those words he pulled down his
collar, baring the carotid artery. "So, Sergeant, just do it: one-two, and all set. I'd really
rather not be stuck in the sand again. Then get away, and good luck to you both. Too bad
that our acquaintance had been so short, but that's life."
     "Baron, I'm a simple man," Tzerlag answered calmly, "and I'm used to doing things by the
book. The Field Manual, paragraph forty-two, says clearly that the `strike of mercy' is
allowed only when there's an immediate danger of the wounded man falling into the foe's
hands. When such a danger appears -- tomorrow, say -- then we'll discuss it."
     "Quit fooling around, Sergeant! Why the hell would you doom all three of us, when you
won't save me anyway?"
     "Quiet in the ranks! We came here together and we'll leave together; the rest is the One's
will. Doctor, check the Elf's pack, maybe he has a medkit there?"
Haladdin called himself an idiot; he should have thought to check. What's he got in there?
All right, an excellent bow and a quiver with thirty arrows, each with a leather sheath on the
point, so they must be poisoned; a wonderful weapon, I'll have it for myself. A coil of
elvenrope: weighs half a pound, takes up a pint of space, a hundred feet long, can hold three
m  makil; this'll come in handy. Elvish bread and a flask of Elvish wine, which isn't wine at
all; wonderful, the baron could use some right away. A purse with gold and silver coins,
probably to pay the Easterlings since the Elves supposedly don't use money; we'll keep that,
can't have too much money. Writing implements and some notes, written in runes... damn,
can't make out anything in the dark; all right, if we live, we'll read them. Oh, here it is, the
One be praised! Having opened the medkit, Haladdin was stunned: it had everything he
could think of, and all of the best quality. Antiseptic -- spider webs covered with gray-green
spots of healing lichen; analgesic -- little balls of dehydrated Khand purple poppy juice;
coagulant -- powdered mandrake root from the high meadows of the Misty Mountains;
stimulant -- cola nuts from Harad's swampy jungles; tissue regenerator -- a brown resin-like
substance capable of mending a broken bone or a trophic sore in five days; plus much more
he had neither time nor need to discern right then. Just let Tzerlag figure out how to throw
the pursuit off track, and he'll have the baron in good shape in no more than a week.
In the meantime the Orocuen was going through the Easterlings' packs in search of flasks
and rations -- in their position another ten or fifteen minutes meant nothing. What they
needed was an idea; they were finished without one. So: they could go onto the hamada, he
knew a few outcroppings nearby with suitable cracks; however, those were likely to be
searched first. Hiding in the sand was not an option -- with no wind, there was no way to
conceal their tracks, they'd be tracked down in no time. The only thing he could think of
was to head west at best possible speed, towards the mountains, and try to reach the edge of
the Morgai plateau with its wind-hollowed caves, but what chance did they have of covering
over thirty miles with a non-walking wounded?.. The baron, revived somewhat by a couple
of good draughts of Elvish wine, interrupted his thoughts: "Sergeant, a minute of your time?
Please examine the Elf."
     "Whatever for?" the scout was surprised. "I've already checked -- dead as a snake skin."
     "That's not what I mean. I keep thinking about that leather breastplate of his that a sword
can't pierce. Please check whether there's anything special under it."
Tzerlag grunted, but got up from his task and went over to the dead body. Taking out his
scimitar, he stuck the blade under the bottom edge of the Elf's armor and cut it open in one
movement from crotch to neck, as if gutting a large fish.
     "Hey, look, a coat of mail! Real strange, too, never saw one like that..."
     "Seems to glow a little, right?"
     "Right. Did you know or did you guess just now?"
     "Had I known it, I wouldn't have bought his open body trick," Tangorn grumbled. "It's
mithril. I couldn't pierce that mail, nor can anyone else in Middle Earth."
Tzerlag cast a sharp look towards the baron -- a pro saluting a pro. Haladdin came up,
helped the sergeant take the precious scaly skin off the dead Elf and examined it closely.
Indeed, the metal was slightly phosphorescent, resembling a blob of moonlight, and warm to
the touch. The mithril mail-coat weighed about a pound and was so thin that it could be
rolled into an orange-sized ball; when it accidentally spilled from his fingers and pooled into
a silver puddle at his feet, he thought that it would be impossible to find on a moonlit night.
     "And here I've thought that mithril was a legend."
     "Well, it's not, as you can see. I think you can buy half of Minas Tirith and all of Edoras to
boot with one such mail-shirt. There's no more than twenty in the entire Middle Earth and
there'll be no more, the secret is lost."
     "So why did he hide it under that leather fake?"
The scout responded for Tangorn: "Because only an idiot shows his trumps. Uruk-Hai the
Great's principle: if you're weak, show strength to the foe; if you're strong, show
weakness."
     "Right," the baron nodded, "and don't forget the Easterlings. Had those carrion-eaters
known about the mithril mail, they'd've cut his throat the first night and fled south -- to
Umbar, say -- to become rich men there. Provided they didn't waste each other dividing the
loot, of course."
     The sergeant gave a gloomy whistle. "Hot damn! So this Eloar was some kinda Elvish big
shot. Which means that the Elves will turn over every stone on the hamada and sift every
dune looking for our band, and spare neither time nor effort..."
He clearly pictured how it would be done, having played the role of both hunter and hunted
in many a dragnet search. Most likely they'll gather at least a hundred fifty men for the task,
foot soldiers and riders, however many can be found on this stretch of the highway. First the
mounted soldiers will cut off the route to Morgai and form a half-circle against the
unapproachable edge of the hamada, while the foot soldiers will move in a dragnet from the
destroyed camp, checking every desert rat hole. With this approach they won't even need
experienced trackers, the superior numbers will be enough, as usual. The whole gang will
be based at the nearest outpost, the only place with a large enough well; the commander's
headquarters will be there, too...
     Tzerlag knew that `outpost' well -- a caravanserai abandoned together with the entire Old
N  rnen Highway when the irrigators' efforts have turned the Western N  rnenlands into
dead salt pans. It was a large square building of clay bricks surrounded by all sorts of adobe
outbuildings, with the ruins of the old one, knocked down by an earthquake, in the back,
overgrown with thorn bush and serge... Wait a minute -- those ruins will be the last place
they'll think of searching! Right, the last one -- meaning that those will be searched as well,
sooner or later, by elimination. Too bad, at first the idea looked pretty good... How about a
diversion, a false trail with a sideways move... where?..
Time was slipping away like water from a torn water-skin, and suddenly the scout's
expression and posture changed subtly in a way that told Haladdin with cold certainty that
the other did not see any chance of escape, either. A soft icy hand moved into Haladdin's
bowels and began leisurely sorting through them as if through freshly caught fish on the
bottom of a boat. It was not soldier's dread before a battle (he had already been through that
today), but something rather different, akin to the dark irrational terror that grips a suddenly
lost child. Only now did he understand that Tzerlag did not just fetch him water through the
Elf-infested forest at Osgiliath, did not only carry him on his back under the nose of the
sentries at Minas Morgul -- no, all this time the scout had also shielded the doctor with his
powerful and comforting `there's a man in the house' protective aura, and this aura was now
in tatters. To be honest, Haladdin had agreed to this mission of vengeance only because he
had firmly decided that it was better to be in any kind of a bind, but with Tzerlag -- and had
guessed wrong this time. The circle has been completed: Eloar paid for Teshgol, in a few
hours they will pay for this camp... Then, frightened and despairing, he yelled in the
Orocuen's face:
     "Are you happy now?! First-rate vengeance, still can't get enough of it?! You paid with all
of us for one Elvish bastard, may the earth swallow him and his ilk forever!"
     "What did you say?" the scout echoed in a strange tone. "May the earth swallow this Elf
forever?"

     <h3>Chapter 13</h3>

     Suddenly Haladdin, brought up short, beheld before him the usual Tzerlag -- the one who
knows what to do.
     "Sorry," he mumbled guiltily, looking away.
     "Whatever, it happens. Bygones. Now, try to remember exactly -- you too, Baron -- did that
pair of Easterlings beat it before or after I took on Eloar?"
     "Before, I think..."
     "Before, Sergeant, I'm positive -- bet my life on it."
     "Right. So they can't possibly know that Eloar is dead or that he even fought... All right.
Now, doctor -- can the baron walk at least a couple of miles, with crutches?"
     "With crutches -- yes, I think so. I'll stuff him full of analgesics... There will be a bad
reaction afterwards."
     "Do it, doctor, or he won't have any `afterwards'. Put together the medkit, some water and
those breads, nothing else. Oh, and some weapons, just in case."
A few minutes later the sergeant handed Tangorn a pair of cross-shaped crutches he had just
fashioned out of shortened Easterling spears and began laying out instructions.
     "We'll split now. You two will get on the edge of the hamada and head north..."
     "North?! But that's where the outpost is!"
     "Exactly."
     "Oh, I see -- do the opposite of what the foe expects?"
     "You got it, doc. Listen. Don't stray from the hamada to the sand. If -- no, when -- the
baron conks out, you'll have to carry him. Don't lose the crutches, hear? Watch that the
wound does not reopen, or else there'll be blood drops on the stones. The most important
thing for you right now is to not leave any tracks; that's easy on the hamada, it's all gravel.
I'll catch up with you in two, two-and-a-half hours."
     "What are you going to do?"
     "I'll explain later, every minute counts now. Forward march, warriors!.. Wait -- gimme a
couple cola nuts, I could use them, too."
     After seeing his comrades move off, the scout got busy. He had plenty of things to do, most
of them small and easily overlooked ones. For example, he had to gather all the stuff that
might come in handy later, should they survive this bind -- from Elvish weapons to
Tangorn's books -- and bury it, carefully noting landmarks. Then to prepare his own sack --
water, rations, warm cloaks, weapons -- and stash it on the hamada. Now for the most
important task.
     Tzerlag's idea, prompted unexpectedly by Haladdin's outburst, was simple. Suppose that
Eloar had not perished in the attack, but ran off into the desert and got lost? That would be
quite likely -- an Elf in a desert is like an Orocuen in a forest -- and his comrades would first
and foremost search for their prince (or whoever he was), and only then for the guerillas
who wasted six Easterling mercenaries (no big loss). He now had to turn this preposterous
supposition into certain fact.
     He took moccasins off the Elf's feet and picked up the cut-up leather breastplate; saw a
simple silver ring on the corpse's left hand and pocketed that, too, just in case. Then he dug
a pit about two feet deep, put the corpse there and covered it with carefully smoothed sand.
By itself this is a lame trick unless you create an illusion that the sand could not possibly
have been disturbed. For that, we will need another dead body, preferably with minimum
damage; the sentry killed by Haladdin's arrow will do just fine. Carefully Tzerlag carried
the body to the spot where he hid the Elf, slit the Easterling's throat from ear to ear and
drained the blood the way hunters do with big game; then he dropped the body into the pool
of blood and arranged it in a natural-looking way. It now looks obvious that the mercenary
died on this spot; a normal person is not very likely to look for a body right under another
one, in blood-soaked sand, unless he knows exactly what to look for.
All right, half the job is done -- the Elf has disappeared, and now he will acquire a very much
alive and sprightly double. The Orocuen changed into the Elf's moccasins (damn, how can
they wear such boots, without a proper hard sole!) and ran south along the foot of the dune,
trying to leave good tracks where the ground was harder. He had donned the Elf's slit
breastplate like a vest and carried his own indispensable desert boots in his hands. About a
mile and a half from the camp the sergeant halted; he had never been a good runner, and
now his heart was beating somewhere near the throat, trying to escape. The distance was
already adequate; the `Elf' will now move onto the hamada, where he will leave no tracks.
The scout tossed Eloar's leather armor about fifteen paces beyond the spot where the tracks
ended; this will serve to confirm both the fugitive's identity and, indirectly, his course
(south).
     Stop and think again, he said to himself. Perhaps it's best not to leave the breastplate here at
all -- too obvious. All right, what would I do if I were him? I am a fugitive who's unsure of
where to go next; looks like I've lost my pursuers, but now I have to wander in this terrible
desert for who knows how long, and it's scarier than any human foe. It's high time to ditch
everything I can to lighten the load; this thing is not that useful anyway, if I survive I can
buy another one of these in any armor shop... Sounds reasonable? Yep. Why did I take it
off now rather than earlier? Just had no time when fleeing, but now I've stopped, looked
around... Sounds reasonable? Sure does. And why is it sliced like that? Because it won't
be the friendlies that find it, but rather the enemies who're hunting me; by the way, they're
certainly tracking me, so it's high time to move onto gravel. Sounds reasonable? Yeah...
Anyway, never think the enemy stupid, but don't assume that they're geniuses, either.
He was almost ready for the sprint back -- changed into his boots and ate a bitter cola nut --
when his gaze fell on the breastplate lying on the stones of the hamada like a cracked
eggshell, and realization of an almost-made mistake drenched him in cold sweat. An
eggshell -- how did the Elf crack out of it? Cut it off himself? It's precisely this kind of a
trifle that can blow a whole operation! All right, unlace it... No! I the Elf am in a hurry, I
don't need the armor any more -- rather, cut the cord. Now it's all set.
He jogged back along the hamada, heading for the barely visible glint of the dying fire,
where his pack awaited. The cola filled him with a treacherous lightness, so that he had to
deliberately slow down, lest his heart burst. Picking up the pack, he forced himself to rest
for a few minutes and then resumed course; now he had to look out for Haladdin and
Tangorn, which slowed him down. It turned out that they have covered over two miles
already -- an excellent pace he did not even count on. The scout saw Haladdin first -- he was
resting, sitting on the ground with his expressionless bloodless face turned up towards the
stars. He had been carrying the baron for the last half a mile, and now Tangorn was back on
his crutches, trying doggedly to gain them another few yards.
     "Have you guys polished off all of that Elvish wine?"
     "No, we've left some for you."
Tzerlag scanned his comrades, estimated the remaining trip and ordered them to take cola.
He knew that tomorrow (if there was a tomorrow) their bodies would pay a nightmarish
price both for this drug and for the poppy balls, but there was no other way to make the trek.
Later Haladdin realized that he could not remember any of it. He remembered clearly that
the cola had not only breathed new life into his weary muscles, but also sharpened all his
senses amazingly, greatly expanding their range -- from the familiar constellations, which
suddenly shone with a multitude of previously invisible tiny stars, to the smell of dung
smoke from someone's incredibly distant fire -- but he could not remember a single detail of
their journey.
     That memory gap ended just as suddenly as it began; the world became real once again, and
reality brought back pain, and weariness so enormous that it even pushed the sense of
danger somewhere to the back of his consciousness. He found himself lying flat against the
ground behind a tiny ridge about thirty yards away from their desired ruins, with the massive
cube of the outpost looming behind it in the predawn light.
     "Maybe we should sprint?" he asked in a barest whisper.
     "Like hell!" the scout hissed furiously, "see the sentry on the roof?"
     "Does he see us?"
     "Not yet: he's silhouetted against the grey sky, we're against dark ground. But if you move
he'll definitely see you."
     "But it's dawning already..."
     "Shut up, willya? It's bad enough as it is..."
     Suddenly the stony ground under Haladdin vibrated with a new ominous sound: a dry fast
drumming which quickly congealed into a rumble resembling an avalanche. A large troop
of riders was approaching along the highway, and resurgent fear was already yelling at him:
     "They saw you! They're surrounding you! Run!.." -- when the sergeant's calm whisper
brought him back to his senses:
     "Ready! On my mark -- no earlier! -- run as fast as you can. Take the pack, the crutches,
and the weapons; I'll take the baron. This is our one and only chance."
Meanwhile the troop had arrived at the outpost and the usual commotion ensued: cursing
riders were pushing their way through the throng of milling foot soldiers, their commander
was arguing with the local one, the guttural shouts of the Easterlings mingled with the
Elves' alarmed trilling, the roof suddenly sported three silhouettes rather than one -- and then
unbelieving Haladdin heard a quiet: "Now!"
     He had never run so fast in his life, never mind failing strength. He made it to the blind
zone under the dilapidated wall in a flash, dropped his burden and still managed to get back
to help Tzerlag, who was halfway there, lugging the baron on his back. The scout shook his
head -- no time, it'd take longer to switch. Faster, faster! Oh One, how much longer will
those dumb sentries stare at the new arrivals -- a second? three? ten? They got to the ruins,
expecting an alarm any moment, and dropped to the ground immediately; Tangorn must
have been in bad shape, as he did not even moan. Scraping their faces and hands on the
bactrian thornbush, they scrambled into a wide crack in the wall and suddenly found
themselves in an almost intact room. All its walls were whole, only the ceiling sported a
large gap through which they could see the rapidly graying dawn sky; the entrance was
entirely blocked with a mound of broken bricks. Only then did Haladdin realize: they've
made it after all! Now they had the best hideout possible, just like a duck sitting on her eggs
right under a falcon's nest.
     He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes just for a moment, and immediately gentle
waves carried him away, whispering: it's all over, rest for just a few minutes, you've earned
them... up, down, up, down... what are these waves? Tzerlag? Why is he shaking my
shoulder so furiously? Oh damn! Thanks, friend -- of course I have to attend to Tangorn
immediately. Nor do I have a few minutes to rest -- the cola's effect will wear off soon, and
then I'll just plain fall apart... where's that damn medkit?

     <h3>Chapter 14</h3>
     Mordor, Morgai plateau
     April 21, 3019

     Evening came. The molten gold of the sun was still boiling in the cauldron formed by two
peaks of the Mountains of Shadow, sharp burning sparks escaping it from time to time, but a
transparent purplish haze was already encroaching on the foothills colored by the sunset.
The cold blue of the sky, almost azure at its eastern end, contrasted beautifully with
yellowish-pink (the color of a Khandian melon) sedimentary crags of Morgai, cut by deep
ink-black gorges. The sides of the flattop clay foothills adjoining the plateau were draped in
ash-gray serge and salsola, dotted here and there with splashes of red -- patches of wild
tulips.
     Haladdin was of two minds about those flowers. Just as every tulip was beautiful
individually, so did the half-acre patches they formed seem unnatural and ominous. It must
have been because their color exactly matched that of bright red arterial blood when in the
sun, and crimson vein blood when in the shade, like right now. Serge and tulips; ash and
blood. Perhaps he would have discerned different connotations at another time.
     "About a mile and a half left." Tzerlag, walking in the lead, turned to his companions and
nodded towards a bright patch of green oozing out of a large dale onto the yellow clay of the
foothills. "What do you say, Baron -- we stop for a break now or make one final push and
then settle down decent-like?"
     "Guys, enough coddling me already," the Gondorian answered somewhat irritably. He
could already use his leg almost normally, although he still used crutches, and had even
insisted on carrying part of the load. "I'll never get back into normal shape that way."
     "All complaints to the doctor, please, I've no responsibility here. What does medicine
recommend, eh?"
     "Chew some cola, of course," Haladdin quipped.
     "Aw, get lost!"
     The joke was indeed of doubtful quality: none of them could recall the finale of their forced
march to the ruins at the outpost without shuddering. Cola does not give a body new
strength, it only mobilizes the reserves it already has. Such mobilization can occur
spontaneously, when a man jumps a dozen yards to save his life, or pulls a half-ton stone out
of the ground with his bare hands; cola allows one to perform such feats on demand, and
then comes the payback: having exhausted his reserves in a critical minute, the person turns
into jelly for a day and a half, both physically and mentally.
That was exactly what happened to them that morning, right after Haladdin managed to
patch up Tangorn's thigh. The baron soon got the shakes, as the fever of his wound
combined with opium withdrawal; he needed urgent help, but neither the doctor nor the
scout could so much as move an eye, like beached jellyfish. Some ten hours later Tzerlag
did manage to get up, but all he could do was give the wounded man the rest of the Elvish
wine and cover him with all the cloaks they had; Haladdin came back to life too late to nip
the baron's illness in the bud. He did manage to prevent overall sepsis, but the wound
developed a large local inflammation; Tangorn ran a fever and became loudly delirious,
which was the worst part -- enemy soldiers used the back of the ruins as a latrine and were
constantly coming and going, so much so that the sergeant began seriously considering
putting him out of his misery before he gave them all away with his mutterings.
Praise the One that this did not become necessary -- by the end of the second day the Elvish
antiseptics had worked, Tangorn's fever went down and the wound started to close quickly.
The adventure was far from over, though. It turned out that, unbeknownst to their officers,
the mercenaries had put up a huge vat making araka -- a local brew made from manna -- in
one of the adjoining ruined rooms and gathered there for a drink or three every nightfall.
The companions mostly got used to the soldiers (just sit quietly as a mouse during the party
in their well-isolated room), but Haladdin vividly pictured some overzealous corporal
discovering the source of the `water of life' and taking the pains to examine every room
around: "Hey, you three! Ten-shut, lushes! What's your platoon? Where're your uniforms,
assholes?" Just imagine blowing it all like that...
     Still, while hiding in the ruins was dangerous, venturing forth would have been total
madness: mounted and foot patrols of Easterlings and Elves kept combing the desert,
examining even fox tracks. Meanwhile a new problem arose: water shortage. They had to
use too much water on the wounded man, and there was no way to replenish the stock, since
there was foot traffic around the outpost well day and night. After five days the situation
became critical -- they had half a pint between them. The baron recalled his Teshgol
adventure and gloomily mentioned frying pan and fire. What rotten luck, Haladdin thought:
this is the first time in our three weeks in the desert that we're actually thirsty, and that less
than a hundred yards from a well!
     Salvation came from an unexpected quarter -- on the sixth day the first sandstorm of the
season started. A yellow wall approached from the south, slowly extending upwards -- it
seemed that the desert horizon was rolling up like the ragged edge of a monstrous scroll; the
sky turned ashen, and one could look at the whitish noon sun without squinting, as if it was
the moon. Then the boundary between earth and sky disappeared, as if two enormous hot
frying pans came together, raising myriads of grains of sand into the air between them; their
mad dance lasted for more than three days. Tzerlag knew better than the others what a
samoom was like, and offered a sincere prayer to the One for all those caught away from
shelter -- not even an enemy deserves such a fate. The One must have ignored the part about
enemies; later they gathered from soldiers' talk that several patrols (about twenty men in
total) did not make it back to the base in time and were certainly dead. There was no more
reason to search for Eloar, not even for his corpse. In the evening Tzerlag wrapped himself
in the Elvish hooded cloak and finally made it to the courtyard well under the cover of the
suffocating yellow fog. So when Tangorn raised a still-wet flask a few minutes later and
offered a toast to the desert demons, the scout frowned doubtfully but did not object.
They left their hideout on the last night of the sandstorm, when the wind had mostly failed
and did no more than drag wisps of sand along the ground, obliterating all tracks. The scout
led his comrades west, to Morgai, hoping to meet nomadic Orocuens who would be bringing
their cattle there to the spring pastures, and rest a little with one of his numerous relatives.
They detoured to Eloar's camp along the way and dug up the trophies that Tzerlag had been
so far-sighted to hide back then. The scout used the opportunity to check on the Elf's corpse
and found it nearly fully mummified; isn't it strange that neither carrion-eaters nor worms
ever touch the Elvish dead -- are they poisonous or something?..
They started their quick march towards the mountains with the first light: to move during the
day was to take a huge risk, but they had to use the short time they had when they did not
have to worry about concealing their tracks. By the end of the second day the company got
to the plateau, but Tzerlag had seen no nomads, and it was beginning to seriously bother
him.
     The dale where they camped was green because a little but talkative spring lived there. It
must have been lonely and now hurried to tell its unexpected guests all the news of its tiny
world: spring is late this year, so the blue irises at the third bend are not in flower yet, but
yesterday it got a visit from some gazelles it knew, an old male with a couple of females...
one could listen to this quiet melodious murmur forever. Only a man who has spent weeks
in the desert drinking nothing but bitter salty water at the bottom of cattle watering holes and
meager drops of tasteless tzandoi distillate can understand what it is like to immerse one's
face into living, running water. It can only be compared to the first touch of a lover after a
long separation; no wonder that the imagination of desert dwellers has no pompous Crystal
Palace of Delights at the center of its Paradise, but rather a small lake under a waterfall...
Then they drank tea brewed to oily blackness, ceremoniously passing around their only
nicked tea bowl, somehow preserved by the sergeant through all the troubles ("Real
Khandian work, I'll have you know"), and now Tzerlag was unhurriedly explaining to
Tangorn that green tea has a multitude of virtues, whereas the question of whether it's better
than black tea is akin to the ridiculous one of whether one loves mother or father best -- each
has its time and place. For example, in the heat of midday... Haladdin was only half-
listening to the discourse, just like he was listening to the murmuring of the brook behind
large stones, experiencing marvelous moments of quiet happiness, kind of like... family
happiness, perhaps?
     The fire, quickly burning down salsola roots (their gray trunks covered most of the nearby
slope), cast a bright light on his comrades: the chiseled profile of the Gondorian turned
towards the moon-like face of the Orocuen, who resembled some placid Eastern deity. With
a sudden heartache Haladdin realized that their strange fellowship was almost over -- in only
a few days their paths will diverge, probably forever. The baron, once his wound heals
completely, will head to the Cirith Ungol pass -- he decided to make his way to Prince
Faramir in Ithilien -- while the sergeant and he will have to decide what to do next.
It was strange, but having gone through several potentially fatal adventures alongside
Tangorn, they have not really found out anything about his former life. ("Are you married,
Baron?" -- "Well, that's a complicated question, can't just answer yes or no." "So where is
your estate located?" -- "I don't think that's important any more, no doubt it has been
confiscated.") Nevertheless, with every passing day Haladdin had more and more respect, if
not quite love, for this slightly ironical man of few words. Looking at the baron, for the first
time he could relate to the idea of `inborn nobility.' Another quality he could sense in
Tangorn was unusual for an aristocrat -- dependability, of a kind different from, say,
Tzerlag's, but quite certain all the same.
     Being of the third estate, Haladdin had always had a lukewarm view of aristocracy. He
could never understand how one could be proud not of the achievements of one's ancestors,
whether in work or war, but rather of how far one could trace their genealogy, especially
since most of those "noble knights" had been nothing but lucky and ruthless highway
robbers, murder their trade and betrayal their calling. Besides, the doctor had despised idlers
since childhood. Still, he felt subconsciously that were the useless and immoral aristocracy
to disappear, the world would irretrievably lose some of its color; most likely it would
become more just, perhaps cleaner, but for sure duller, and that alone is worth something!
After all, he himself was a part of a brotherhood much more exclusive than any based on
heredity; Haladdin knew with absolute certainty that he had been knighted by Someone
much more powerful than the King of the Reunited Kingdom or the Caliph of Khand. Isn't
it strange that almost nobody realizes how undemocratic science and art are by their very
nature...
     The sergeant interrupted his musings by suggesting they draw for the first watch. A small
desert owl drifted like a giant feather some fifteen feet over their heads, its hoot reminding
all the good children to go to bed already. "You crash, guys," Haladdin offered, "I'm going
to clean up, too." Strictly speaking, this whole evening -- with a fire, however well
concealed, and no sentry for a while -- was a major security lapse. However, Tzerlag had
judged the risk very small, since the search for Eloar has been called off and Elvish patrols
do not stray far from the highway otherwise. After all, people have to relax sometime;
constant vigilance can backfire, too.
     The fire had died down in the meantime -- salsolas produce almost no embers, turning
directly into ash -- and Haladdin put Tzerlag's `Khandian' bowl into the brewing pot and
took it down to the stream to wash up. He had already put the clean pot down on the shore
gravel and was warming fingers numb from icy water with his breath when quick flickers on
the surrounding boulders told him that the fire was building up again. Who's still up? -- he
wondered, -- can't see anything against the firelight... The black silhouette by the fire was
motionless, its hands stretched towards the quickly rising orange flames. The circle of light
widened smoothly, illuminating their packs, Tangorn's crutches leaning against a boulder,
and both sleeping forms... Both?! So who's sitting by the fire? Suddenly the doctor
realized something else: he had gone on his twenty-yard dishwashing mission without any
weapons. No weapons at all, which probably had just doomed his friends.
The person sitting by the fire turned unhurriedly towards the hapless sentry and made a
commanding beckoning gesture. It was clear as day that had he so desired, all three of them
would have been dead by now. Haladdin made his way back to the fire in a kind of a daze,
sat down opposite the black-cloaked intruder -- and caught his breath as if hit with a body
blow: the closely drawn cowl concealed nothing but emptiness, with two dim scarlet embers
gazing intently at him from the inside. He was facing a nazg  l.

     <h3>Chapter 15</h3>

     The Nazg  l! An ancient magical order, ever surrounded by most ominous rumor. Black
wraiths, supposedly in touch with the highest powers of Mordor; the miracles ascribed to
them were such that no serious person would ever believe them. Nor had Haladdin believed
them, but now a nazg  l was here for his soul... Having said that common phrase in his
mind, he almost bit his tongue. Despite being a skeptic and a rationalist, Haladdin had
nevertheless always known that some things are better left untouched, lest one lose his
fingers... Suddenly he heard a voice, quiet and a little husky, with a hard-to-place accent,
issuing, it seemed, not from the darkness under the hood, but from somewhere off to the
side, or from above:
     "Are you afraid of me, Haladdin?"
     "Well, to be honest..."
     "So say it straight: yes, I'm afraid. You see, I could have assumed... er... a more neutral
form, but I've too little strength left. So please bear with me, it'll not be for long. Although
it must be creepy to one unused to such things."
     "Thank you," Haladdin answered gruffly, feeling his fear suddenly dissipate without a trace.
     "Could you at least introduce yourself, since you know me but I don't know you?"
     "Actually, you do know me, if only by hearsay: Sharya-Rana, at your service." The edge of
the cowl dipped in a small bow. "To be more precise, I was Sharya-Rana in my previous
life."
     "Amazing!" Now Haladdin was sure that he was dreaming, and tried to behave accordingly.
     "A personal conversation with Sharya-Rana himself -- I would've gladly given five years of
my life for that. By the way, you have a rather interesting lexicon for a Vendotenian who
lived more than a century ago."
     "It's your lexicon, not mine." Haladdin could have sworn that for a split second the
darkness under the cowl coalesced into a smirk. "I'm simply using your words, it's no effort
for me. Although, if you prefer..."
     "No, this is fine." Total delusion! "But tell me, honored Sharya-Rana, they say that all the
Nazg  l are former kings?"
     "There are kings among us, too, as well as doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, and such. As
you can see, some of us are mathematicians."
     "So is it true that after publishing The Natural Basis of Celestial Mechanics you turned
completely to theology?"
     "Yes, but that, too, is all behind me, in my former life."
     "And when you leave those former lives, you simply shed your tired flesh and acquire
unlimited powers and immortality?"
     "No. We are long-lived, but mortal. Indeed, we are always nine -- that is the tradition -- but
members of the Nine change. As for unlimited powers... it's really an unimaginably heavy
burden. We are the magic shield that had for ages protected the little oasis of Reason in
which your light-minded civilization had so comfortably nestled. It is absolutely alien to the
World in which we had to be born, and Middle Earth is struggling against this alien presence
with all the might of its magic. When we manage to absorb a blow, we dematerialize, and
then it is simply very painful; whereas when we make a mistake and a blow reaches your
little world... What we feel then has no name in any human language: all the World's pain,
all the World's fear, all the World's despair is the payment for our work. If you only knew
how emptiness can hurt..." The burning coals under the hood seemed filmed with ash
momentarily. "In other words, you shouldn't envy us our powers."
     "Forgive me," Haladdin mumbled. "None of us even suspect... they tell all kind of tales
about you... I myself thought that you're phantoms that don't care about the real world."
     "On the contrary, we do care a lot. For example, I'm well acquainted with your work."
     "Really?!"
     "Oh yes. Congratulations: what you did the year before last with your study of nerve tissue
will inaugurate a new era in physiology. Not sure that you'll make it into a school textbook,
but a university course certainly. Provided, of course, that after the recent events this world
will ever have textbooks and universities."
     "Yeah?" Haladdin was doubtful. Sure, to hear this kind of praise from Sharya-Rana himself
(provided that this was, indeed, Sharya-Rana) was pleasant beyond belief, but the great
mathematician seemed not so competent in a foreign subject. "I'm afraid that you're
confusing a couple of things. I did indeed achieve a few good results studying how poisons
and antidotes work, but that work with nerve fibers was just a fleeting whim. A couple of
cute experiments, a hypothesis that still needs a lot of checking..."
     "I never confuse anything," the nazg  l snapped coldly. "That little paper is the best work
you have done and will ever do; at the very least, you've immortalized your name. I say this
not because I believe it, but because I know it. We have some ways to see the future, and
use them sometimes."
     "Well, sure, you must be interested in the future of science."
     "In that particular case our main interest was you rather than science."
     "Me?!"
     "Yes, you. Still, not everything is clear, which is why I'm here to ask a few questions.
Most of them will be... rather personal, and I only ask for one thing: please answer as
honestly as you think necessary, but don't invent anything; that'd be useless anyway. And
please stop looking around all the time! There are no other people for..." -- the nazg  l
paused for a moment -- "at least twenty-three miles in any direction, and your friends will
sleep soundly until we're done here. So -- are you ready to answer under those conditions?"
     "As I understand it," Haladdin smiled crookedly, "you can obtain my answers without my
consent."
     "Yes, I can," the nazg  l nodded, "but I will not. Not with you, anyway. The thing is, I have
a certain proposition for you, so we must at least trust each other... Hey, do you think I'm
here to buy your immortal soul?" Haladdin mumbled something unintelligible. "Oh, please --
that's complete nonsense!"
     "What's nonsense?"
     "Buying a soul, that's what. Be it known to you that a soul can be obtained as a gift, as a
sacrifice, it can be lost -- but it can be neither bought nor sold. It's like love: there's no give-
and-take, otherwise it's just not love. Besides, I'm really not that interested in your soul."
     "Really? " Strangely, that stung. "So what interests you, then?"
     "First of all, I'm interested in finding out why a brilliant scientist would quit his job, which
was the meaning of his life rather than just a livelihood, and volunteer as an army field
medic."
     "Well, for example, he was interested in verifying some of his ideas about how poisons
work in practice. Such a wealth of data was being lost, you know..."
     "So the Elf-wounded soldiers of the South Army were nothing but guinea pigs to you?
That's a lie! I know you like my own two hands, from your idiotic experiments on yourself
to... Why the hell are you trying to seem more cynical than you are?"
     "But the practice of medicine predisposes one to certain cynicism, especially military
medicine. You know, they give this test to all novice field medics. Say that you get three
wounded men: one with a belly wound, one with a serious thigh wound -- open break, blood
loss, shock, the works -- and one with a glancing shoulder wound. You can only operate one
at a time, so where do you start? Surely, all novices say, it's the belly wound. No, says the
examiner. While you're busy with him, and it's nine out of ten that he's going to die
anyway, the guy with the thigh wound will get complications and will at least lose his leg,
and most likely die, too. So you have to start with the most serious wound among those who
have a decent chance of survival -- in our case, the thigh wound. As for the belly wound,
well... give the man an analgesic and leave him to the One's will. To a normal person this
must seem cynical and cruel, but at war you can only choose between bad and worse, so this
is the only way. It was only in Barad-Dur that we could talk nicely, over tea and jam, about
how every human life is invaluable..."
     "Something doesn't add up here. If all your considerations are eminently practical, why did
you carry the baron and risked the whole team, rather than administering the `strike of
mercy'?"
     "Where's the contradiction? It's plainly obvious that you have to help your comrade to the
hilt, even at the greatest risk: you save him today, he'll save you tomorrow. As for the
`strike of mercy', don't worry -- were it necessary, we would've done it in the best form...
It used to be better in the old times, when wars were declared in advance, didn't involve
peasants, and a wounded man could simply surrender. Too bad that we weren't born then,
but no inhabitant of those glass-house times can cast a stone at us."
     "A beautiful exposition, Field Medic, sir, but I suspect that you'd ask the sergeant to do the
`strike of mercy'. No? All right then, another question, again about practical logic. Have
you considered that a leading physiologist sitting in Barad-Dur and studying antidotes
professionally could save a lot more lives than a field medic?"
     "Of course I've considered it. It's just that -- sometimes there are situations when a man has
to do an obviously stupid thing just to retain his self-respect."
     "Even if this self-respect is ultimately bought with others' lives?"
     "Well... I'm not sure. After all, the One may have His own ideas about that."
     "So you make the decision, but the One bears responsibility for it? Wonderful! Haven't
you told the same thing to Kumai in almost the exact same words I've just used?
Remember? You had no chance, of course -- once a Troll decides something, that's the end
of it. "We may not sit out the battle which will decide the fate of the Motherland" -- and so
an excellent mechanic becomes an army engineer, Second Class. A truly priceless
acquisition for the South Army! In the meantime it seems to you that Sonya is looking at
you strangely: sure, her brother is fighting at the front while her bridegroom is cutting up
rabbits at the University like there's not a war on. So then you can think of nothing better
than to follow Kumai (truly it is said that stupidity is contagious), so that the girl is bereft of
both brother and bridegroom. Am I right?"
     For some time Haladdin stared at the flames dancing over the coals (strange thing: the fire
keeps burning, although the nazg  l doesn't seem to be adding any wood). He had the
distinct feeling of having been exposed in something untoward. What the hell!
     "In other words, doctor, your head is a total mess, if you pardon the expression. You can
make decisions, no question about that, but can't complete a single logical construct; rather,
you slide into emotionalism. However, in our case this is actually not bad."
     "What's not bad?"
     "You see, should you decide to accept my proposition, you will thereby take on an opponent
that is immeasurably more powerful than you are. However, your actions are frequently
totally irrational, so he'll have a hell of a time guessing what you'll do. It is quite possible
that this is our only hope."

     <h3>Chapter 16</h3>

     "That's interesting," Haladdin said after thinking a little. "Go ahead, tell me your
proposition, I'm intrigued."
     "Wait a bit, all in good time. First of all, be aware that your Sonya is alive and well, and
even relatively safe. So you can actually take her and go to Umbar or Khand to continue
your studies; after all, it is precisely the accumulation and preservation of knowledge
that..."
     "Enough already!" Haladdin grimaced. "I'm not leaving here for anywhere... that's what
you want to hear, right?"
     "Right," Sharya-Rana nodded. "However, a man should have a choice, and for men like you
it's especially important."
     "Ri--i-i-ight, just so that later you can shrug and say: `You got into this crap all by yourself,
buddy -- no one was prodding you with a sharp stick!' What if I do, indeed, tell you to get
lost and beat it to Umbar -- what then?"
     "Well, you won't. Haladdin, please don't think that I'm daring you. There will be a lot of
work to be done here, very hard and mortally dangerous work, so we will need everybody:
soldiers, mechanics, poets..."
     "Poets? Why those?"
     "Seemingly, those will be needed no more than all the rest. We will have to save everything
that can be saved on this Earth, but first and foremost -- the memory of who we are and who
we were. We must preserve it like embers under the ashes -- in the catacombs or in the
diaspora -- and poets are indispensable for that."
     "So I will take part in those rescues?"
     "No, not you. I have to tell you a sad secret: all our current activity in Mordor can't really
change anything. We have lost the most important battle in the history of Arda -- the magic
of the White Council and the Elves overcame the magic of the Nazg  l -- and now the green
shoots of reason and progress, bereft of our protection, will be weeded out throughout
Middle Earth. The forces of magic will reconfigure this world to their liking, and henceforth
it will have no room for technological civilizations like that of Mordor. The three-
dimensional spiral of history will lose its vertical dimension and collapse into a closed
circle; centuries and ages will pass, but the only things to change will be the names of the
kings and the battles they win. As for Men... Men will remain pitiful deficient creatures
who will not dare raise their eyes to look at the masters of the world -- the Elves; it's only in
a changing world that a mortal can turn his curse into a blessing and rise above the
Immortals through generational change. In two or three decades the Elves will turn Middle
Earth into a well-tended tidy lawn, and Men into cute pets; they will deprive Man of a very
small thing -- his right to Create, and grant him a myriad of plain and simple pleasures
instead... Actually, Haladdin, I can assure you that most people will make this trade
without remorse."
     "'Most people' don't concern me, they can take care of themselves. So the Elves are our
real enemies, rather than the Gondorians?"
     "The Gondorians are victims just as you are, we're not talking about them here. Strictly
speaking, the Elves are not your enemies, either, not in the usual sense; can you call Man the
enemy of deer? Certainly Man hunts deer -- so what's the big deal about that? He also
guards them in royal forests, sings the majestic strength of the old buck, gets sentimental
looking in does' eyes, feeds an orphaned fawn from his hand... So the current cruelty of the
Elves is a temporary measure; in a sense, it's forced. When the world is static, they will for
sure tread lighter; after all, the capability to Create is undoubtedly a deviation from the
norm, so such people will be treated, rather than killed as they are now. Nor will the
Immortals have to get their own hands dirty -- there will be plenty of human volunteers...
there already are... By the way, this future Elvish world will be pretty good in its own way --
a stagnant pond is certainly less aesthetically pleasing than a stream, but it grows such
wonderful water poppies..."
     "I see. So how can we prevent them from turning Middle Earth into this... swamp with
beautiful water poppies?"
     "I'll explain, but I have to start at the very beginning. It's a pity that you're not a
mathematician, the explanation would've been easier... just ask me right away if something
is unclear, all right? Now: every inhabited World has two components; really, they are two
different worlds, which have their own laws but co-exist in a single `wrapper'. They are
customarily called `physical' and `magical', although those designations are somewhat
arbitrary, in that the magical world is quite real and, in that sense, physical, while the
physical one has certain properties which are not reducible to physics and can be considered
magical. In the case of Arda these are the Middle Earth and Aman, inhabited by their
sentient populations of Men and Elves. These worlds are parallel, but their inhabitants
perceive the boundary between them as a temporal rather than a spatial one: every human
knows that there are no wizards, dragons, or goblins now, but his grandparents have for sure
seen some -- and this persists in every generation. Nor is this a figment of imagination;
rather, it's a natural consequence of the two-part structure of inhabited Worlds. I could
show you the appropriate mathematical models, but you won't be able to make heads or tails
out of them. Are you with me so far?"
     "Yes, quite."
     "Very well. For some unknown reason (think of it as the One's strange whim), in our Arda,
and only in our Arda, it is possible to have direct contact between the physical and magical
worlds, allowing its inhabitants to interact in real space-time -- or, to put it simply, to shoot
at each other. The existence of this interspatial `corridor' is provided by the so-called
Mirror. Some time ago it had arisen in the magical world -- arisen, rather than was made --
together with the seven Seeing Stones, the palant  ri, and can't exist without them, since both
the Mirror and the palant  ri are the product of separation of the same substance, namely the
Eternal Fire..."
     "Wait, isn't a palant  r a device for long-distance communication?"
     "Yes, it can be used for that. You can also drive nails with one... actually, no, that'd be
inconvenient, they're round and slippery. But they'd make great fishing weights! You see,
each of those magical objects has innumerable properties and uses, but in this world we
don't even have names for most of them. Which is why they're used for all sorts of
nonsense: palant  ri for communication, the Mirror for primitive future-telling..."
     "Some primitive nonsense!"
     "I assure you, this is total nonsense compared to some of its capabilities. Besides, the
Mirror portrays not the objective future of Arda, but various alternatives -- yes, alternatives --
of the individual fate of the gazer. You, being an experimental scientist, should know that
any measuring device affects the state of whatever is being measured, and here the `device'
is a person, with free will and everything."
     "Well, whatever you say, predicting the future is impressive."
     "You're so fixated on this prediction business," Sharya-Rana said in annoyance. "What
about violating the law of causality -- does that impress you?"
     "The law of what?!"
     "Causality -- yes, the very one. All right, we'll get to the law of causality yet. So far, what
you need to remember is that in general the palant  ri control space and the Mirror controls
time. Next: the two worlds of Arda are asymmetric in all parameters, so this `channel'
between them works very selectively. For example, many magical creatures are quite at
home here, but only a few mortals have ever managed to visit Aman, and for a very short
time at that. These people are called wizards in Middle Earth."
     "Are the Nazg  l wizards, too?"
     "Of course. To continue, this asymmetry has been balanced by a very important fact. As
severely limited as the wizards' capabilities are in that neighboring world, it so happened
that they nevertheless managed to obtain the Mirror and the palant  ri and drag the whole lot
over here, to Middle Earth. As a result, the Elves can settle in Middle Earth while Men can't
settle in Aman, but control over the `channel' between the worlds remains in the hands of
wizards, who are of this world. This enables contact, but disables any colonization. As you
can see, the One had set up a well thought-out system."
     "Right -- the twin-key principle."
     "Precisely. The only thing He had not anticipated was that some of the wizards were so
taken with Aman that they decided to mold Middle Earth in its form and image at any cost;
they constitute the White Council. The others, who later formed the Order of the Nazg  l,
were emphatically opposed: what sane person would destroy his own world to build a bad
copy of another one on its ruins? Both sides had their reasons, both sincerely wanted to
make the people of Middle Earth happier..."
     "Yeah, I get it."
     "Right. When the White Council and the Nazg  l clashed over the future of Middle Earth,
both sides quickly found natural allies. We began helping out the dynamic civilizations of
Central Middle Earth -- Mordor first and foremost, and Umbar and Khand to some extent --
while the White Council relied on the traditional societies of the North and West, and the
Enchanted Forests, of course. At first the Whites were completely sure of a quick victory,
since they happened to possess both the Mirror and most of the palant  ri when the war broke
out. They have, for all intents and purposes, opened Middle Earth to Elvish expansion in
order to mobilize all forces of magic against Mordor, both local and foreign. The only thing
the white wizards hadn't foreseen was that our way, the way of Freedom and Knowledge,
was so attractive that lots of people -- the best in Middle Earth -- came to serve as the
magical shield of the Mordorian civilization. One after another they dematerialized under
the blows of Western magic, but others took their place. In other words, Haladdin, your
peace has been dearly bought. There is no higher price."
     "Why didn't we know any of that?"
     "Because it didn't really concern you. The only reason I mention it now is to ask you to
remember that when you join the struggle, you will be fighting for them, too... But this is
just sentimental icing on the cake. To make a long story short: the situation was highly
unfavorable, but we have managed, at the cost of all those sacrifices, to shield the Mordorian
civilization, and it had made it out of the crib. Another fifty, maybe seventy years, and you
would have completed the industrial revolution, and then no one would've been able to
touch you. From that point on the Elves would've dwelled quietly in their Enchanted
Forests, not getting in anyone's way, while the rest of Middle Earth would've by and large
gotten onto your path. And so, realizing that they were about to lose the contest, the wizards
of the White Council decided on a monstrous move: to unleash a war of total destruction
against Mordor, to involve the Elves directly, and to pay them with the Mirror."
     "They paid the Elves with the Mirror?!"
     "Yes. It was absolute madness; the head of the White Council himself, Saruman, a
foresighted and prudent man, fought this plan to the last, and quit the Council when it was
adopted after all. The Council is now headed by Gandalf, the architect of the `final solution
to the Mordorian problem.'"
     "Wait, which Saruman is that? The king of Isengard?"
     "The same. He formed a temporary alliance with us, since he understood right away what
those games with the denizens of the Enchanted Forests mean to Middle Earth. He used to
warn the White Council for the longest time: `Using the Elves in our struggle against
Mordor is akin to burning down the house to get rid of roaches.' And that's exactly how it
came out. Mordor lies in ruins, and the Mirror is in L  rien, with the Elvish Queen
Galadriel; soon the Elves will brush the White Council away like crumbs off the table and
rule Middle Earth as they see fit. Remember I mentioned the law of causality? The main
difference between the magical and our worlds is that this law doesn't hold there; or, rather,
its sway is very limited. When the Elves figure out the Mirror's properties (which will be
difficult even for them, since they've never encountered it before) and understand that it can
control the law of causality, they will immediately and forever turn our world into a dirty
backwater of Aman."
     "So, this means... there is no way out?" Haladdin asked quietly.
     "There is one. So far, there is. The only way to save Middle Earth is to completely isolate it
from the magical world. To do that, Galadriel's Mirror must be destroyed."
     "Can we do it?" the doctor shook his head dubiously.
     "We -- if you mean the Nazg  l -- can not. Not any more. But you, Field Medic Second
Class Haladdin, can. You, and no other," unearthly cold wafted at him from Sharya-Rana's
pointing arm, "are capable of shattering the very foundation of the Elves' magical power and
preserving this world as it is."

     <h3>Chapter 17</h3>

     Silence fell. Stupefied, Haladdin stared at the nazg  l, awaiting clarification.
     "Yes, you've heard right, doctor. You see, right now, all across Mordor, hundreds of
wonderful people -- including your Sonya -- are carrying out our common task. They fight as
guerillas, transport children to safe places, set up secret repositories of knowledge for the
future... They risk their lives every hour in the ruins of Barad-Dur, abase themselves in
occupation administration, die under torture. They do everything humanly possible, not
thinking of themselves and not expecting any gratitude from anyone. But it is up to you,
Haladdin -- you alone! -- to determine whether all these sacrifices will be a down payment on
a victory or merely an extension of agony. I would love to relieve you of this terrible
burden, but I can't. It's yours; so it comes out."
     "No, this has to be some kind of mistake!" He shook his head vigorously in protest.
     "Something got confused somewhere. You say `shatter the Elvish magic', but I don't know
the first thing about magic! I have never had any talent for magic; I can't do even the
simplest trick -- find a hidden object with a frame."
     "You don't even know how right you are! A complete lack of any magical ability such as
yours is incredibly rare and almost impossible. You see, Nature had deprived you of a
sword, but gave you a wonderful shield instead: a man who is totally incapable of magic is
also totally immune to others' magic. The Elves are in such power now that they can easily
wipe out any wizard, but they'll have to deal with you by the rules of the rational world,
where your chances are more equal. Plus this tendency of yours towards unpredictable
emotional decisions is also no walk in the park... Frankly, the chances of success are very
small, but in all other alternatives there are none."
     "But please see that I can't do work that I don't understand!" He was in despair. "That I'll
die is not such a big deal, but to doom the efforts of so many people? No, I can't! Besides --
you've just said that Sonya is safe and I can take her to Umbar, and now it seems like she's
working for you, too? How so?"
     "Don't worry about Sonya, she's splendid. I saw her in Barad-Dur back then. The city
burned for several days straight, the Men of the West couldn't even enter it, and there were
numerous people in the basements -- the children, the wounded... She was searching for
people under the ruins and did totally impossible things sometimes. You must know she has
this gift of absolute fearlessness; she can be afraid for someone else, but never for herself.
By the way, have you noticed that women have this gift incomparably more often than men?
Understand this: nothing can happen to a person who is not afraid; it is not for naught that
her medical squad considers her a living talisman. This is real ancient magic, not some
cheap spell, please trust a professional. She is now in one of our hideouts in the Ash
Mountains -- thirty-six children and Mama Sonya. That place is as safe as can be."
     "Thank you."
     "Not at all, she's in her rightful place. Listen, Haladdin, I think I've scared you too much
with all this talk. Don't look so downcast! Please summon your healthy cynicism and look
at this business as a purely scientific, theoretical challenge. A mental exercise, you know --
putting together a puzzle."
     "You should know," Haladdin responded gloomily, "that a scientist won't lift a finger until
he's certain that he has all pieces of the puzzle and that it actually has a solution. Searching
a dark room for a black cat that's not even there is not for us, that's philosophers' business."
     "I can reassure you that there definitely is a cat in our dark room, the problem is how to
catch it. Here, then, is the puzzle. Given: a large magical crystal, code name `Mirror,'
located smack in the middle of the Enchanted Forest, in L  rien, at Elf Queen Galadriel's.
Problem: to destroy said crystal. Care to give it a try?"
     "Parameters of this crystal?" Haladdin joined the game without much desire.
     "Ask away!"
     "Eh... Well, to begin with: shape, size, weight?"
     "It is shaped like a lens. Dimensions: one-and-a-half yards in diameter and a foot thick.
Weight: about a thousand pounds, not for one man to lift. Besides, it mostly likely has a
metal setting."
     "All right... Mechanical strength?"
     "Absolute, just like that of the palant  ri."
     "What do you mean -- `absolute'?"
     "I mean literally absolute -- impossible to break."
     "Whoa! Then how?.."
     "This information," the nazg  l's voice was suddenly metallic and officer-like, "is already in
your possession, so please work your memory."
     Damn, just what I need... get lost, willya? Wait, what was that he'd said about the Mirror
and the palant  ri?
     "The Mirror and the palant  ri arose as product of separation of the Eternal Fire, so the same
Fire would destroy them, right?"
     "Bravo, Haladdin! Precisely so, and in no other manner."
     "Wait a second, where am I supposed to obtain this Eternal Fire?"
     "The entire Orodruin is at your service."
     "Are you kidding? Where's Orodruin and where's L  rien?"
Sharya-Rana spread his hands: "This is precisely your riddle."
Haladdin shook his head. "Yeah, no joke... So: one, sneak into the Elvish capital; two,
charm their queen; three, steal a thousand-pound medallion; four, drag it to Orodruin... all
right, I won't count lugging it up to the crater as a separate task... and I have how long to do
all that?"
     "Three months," the nazg  l said drily. "A hundred days, to be precise. If you're not done by
the first of August, you can wind up the operation -- it won't help anyone any more."
To appease his conscience, Haladdin had actually tried solving the riddle, wracking his mind
for two or three minutes -- no way, no how! -- and finally asked in relief: "All right, Sharya-
Rana, I give up. What's your solution?"
     "I don't have one," the other replied calmly, turned what used to be a face towards the stars
and muttered with a strange sadness: "How time flies... less than an hour left..."
     "What do you mean, you don't have one?" Haladdin finally managed to get out. "Didn't you
say that there is a solution?"
     "True, there is, but I don't know what it is. Even if I knew, I would not have been able to
divulge it to you, as that would immediately doom the entire enterprise. The rules of this
game stipulate that you have to travel this road all by yourself. This doesn't mean that you
have to go it alone; you're free to accept any technical help from other people at your
discretion, but all the decisions have to be yours alone. As for myself, I stand ready to
provide any information that can be useful in your mission, but no concrete hints; consider
me a sort of an Encyclopedia of Arda, but bear in mind that you have less than an hour."
     "Any information?" Curiosity overcame all his other feelings.
     "Any non-magical information," the nazg  l corrected. "Anything your heart desires: mithril
technology, Elvish dynasties, the Ring of Power, Mordor's sleeper agents in Minas Tirith
and Umbar -- ask away, Haladdin."
     "Wait a minute -- you said `non-magical' and just mentioned the Ring of Power! How so?"
     "Listen," Sharya-Rana remarked in some annoyance, looking at the sky again, "you only
have about fifty minutes. Honestly, that stupid business involved no magic and has no
bearing on your mission!"
     "That's a concrete hint!"
     "Touch ?! All right, if you can spare the time -- listen. It's up to you now to decide what's
important and what isn't."
     He regretted his curiosity, as he understood that those memories were rather unpleasant to
Sharya-Rana. But the nazg  l had already begun his tale, and once again it seemed to
Haladdin that the darkness under the cowl hid a ghostly sarcastic grin.
     "This had been one of our many attempts to split the Western coalition, which,
unfortunately, did no good. We made a luxurious ring -- the goldsmiths had a lot of fun --
spread a rumor that it's supposed to confer power over the entire Middle Earth, and shipped
it over Anduin. The hope was that the Gondorians and the Rohirrim would battle each other
over this little gift. Well, those did indeed swallow the bait, hook, line, and sinker, but
Gandalf figured out whose idea it was right away. To save the Western coalition from
falling apart, he tricked them all: got to the Ring first, but rather than keep it, caused it to be
thoroughly lost.
     "He hid it really well; our intelligence service took more than two years to pick up the scent.
It turned out that the Ring was in the Shire, a backwater in the far North-West: whitewashed
shutters, rose gardens, a pig in the mud in the middle of the main street... So what to do?
Neither the Gondorians nor the Rohirrim have ever stepped foot into this Shire. Steal the
Ring and drop it off at Anduin again -- our involvement would've been clear as day. So
someone had a good idea: to pretend that we're seeking the Ring, too, and thus dislodge its
lazy owner. But in our conceit we Nazg  l decided to do this ourselves, quick and easy, here
today, gone tomorrow... this was way below our pay grade, to put it mildly, but a dilettante
is always a dilettante, no matter how smart he is. Two real spies would've done a lot more
good than our entire Order.
     "Strictly speaking, the Nazg  l can take any shape they want, but back then we used our real
look, just like now. Take yourself -- you're an educated man, and still you paled a little, so
can't blame the local yokels. To make a long story short, we dressed to impress and paraded
in a few local towns, just about shouting from the rooftops: `Where's the keeper of the Ring
of Power? Get him over here!' It's a good thing they don't even have police over there, let
alone a counter-intelligence service; the professionals would've realized immediately that
this was not at all how you catch someone. Well, those village simpletons -- the Ring-keeper
and his friends -- took it all for real, so we herded them East slowly, just scaring them once
in a while so they wouldn't hang around the taverns for too long. In the meantime, our
people led Gondorian Prince Boromir to them. The whole operation was for his sake, really:
that guy was ready to make soup from his father's bones to get the Ring of Power. So when
the prince joined the party, together with a bunch of other people, we thought it all set -- no
more need for us to shadow that gang and scare them. Now our ring will sail clear to Minas
Tirith with no problems...We tasked a company of Orocuens to escort the Ring and forgot
all about it -- and paid for it. Some time later our people watching the Anduin spotted a
funeral boat, checked it -- surprise! Boromir! Apparently they had some sort of a brawl in
the company, and someone bested him. No one has seen the Ring since then, nor has
anyone looked; whatever for?
     "So, to sum it up, we've screwed this one up royally, no question, I'm still ashamed to
remember... So, doctor, have you been amused by this morality tale? Are you even
listening?"
     "My sincere apologies, Sharya-Rana!" Haladdin finally tore his fixed gaze from the orange
embers and suddenly smiled. "This story gave me an idea somehow. I may have found a
solution to this puzzle... or at least an approach to a solution. Tell me -- by the rules of this
game, may I share it with you, or would it be a hint?"

     <h3>Chapter 18</h3>

     "No," Sharya-Rana said after some thought. "I mean -- no, it won't be a hint. Tell me your
solution."
     "Please tell me about the palant  ri first, all right?"
     "As you please. Those, too, are magical crystals; with your magical limitations they can
only interest you as means of communication. Anything surrounding one crystal can be
transmitted to another -- images, sounds, smells. Let me stress: it is the phenomenon itself
that gets transmitted, rather than information about it. How this happens is rather difficult to
understand, nor do you need to. Thoughts and feelings don't get transmitted, that's a fairy
tale. A palant  r can work in sending, receiving, or two-way mode; in principle, it is possible
to set up contact between more than two crystals, but that is very complicated."
     "What do they look like?"
     "A ball of smoky crystal, about the size of a child's head."
     "So they're portable, at least, that's a big plus. Then here's the idea. The seven palant  ri
and the Mirror are a complementary pair and can't exist without each other, right? So
instead of the Mirror we can drop the palant  ri into Orodruin, with the same result! You
will tell me where to look for them; would that be legal?"
     "Hmm... Ingenious! Unfortunately, this is technically impossible, at least as far as I can
see. The thing is, you need all seven to succeed, and some palant  ri are quite out of reach.
We have only one in Mordor, that one's not a problem. I surmise that Aragorn grabbed
Denethor's palant  r, and Gandalf has Saruman's. Those are at least within theoretical reach,
so that's three. But then there's the palant  r of the Western Elves; their ruler Kirden keeps it
in the tower of Elostirion in Emyn Beraid -- how is that any better than L  rien, it's only
further away? Finally, there is the palant  r of Osgiliath, tossed into Anduin ages ago -- who
knows where it is by now? -- and the two of Arnor, from Ann  minas and the tower of Amon
S  l; those are in a sunken ship at the bottom of the Bay of Forochel. I can give you exact
coordinates if you wish, but I really don't see how that will help you."
Haladdin felt the tips of his ears burn. Impudent whelp -- to think that you could solve in
three minutes a puzzle that the greatest mathematical mind of all time must have been
pondering for many years... He was incredibly surprised to hear Sharya-Rana say:
     "Great job, Haladdin. Honestly, only now am I somewhat at peace. This means that you
have actually started working on this puzzle, and nothing will stop you now."
     "Yes, you've suckered me in quite deftly, no question," he grumbled. "By the way, where is
our palant  r, of Mordor? Just in case."
     "Try guessing. Tzerlag must've taught you a few things over the last month, no?"
     "Some guess! At least tell me when it was hidden?"
     "Right after the Battle of Cormallen, when it became clear that Mordor will fall."
     "All right..." He thought for a couple of minutes. "So. To begin with, where it certainly
can't be is all your hideouts, guerilla bases, and the like. Should I explain?"
     "Not to me. Next?"
     "No way you'd hide it in Barad-Dur, for all of its wonderful hiding places, because of the
coming siege and fires."
     "That's logical."
     "To move it abroad is dicey. First, it was precisely at that time, right after Cormallen, that
the roads were at their riskiest; second, who knows what the local agents will do after the
defeat? Although it would be tempting to hide it in Minas Tirith!"
     "Well... All right. Accepted."
     "Caves, abandoned mines, old wells are out: there are a lot more accidental observers
around such places than is commonly known. For the same reason, can't sink it under a
buoy in some pretty cove of N  rnen -- the fishermen are curious folks."
     "Right again."
     "In other words, I would bury it in some faraway, unpopulated, and undistinguished
location, in the mountains or in the desert, noting the landmarks really well. Of course, this
carries its own risk -- in a few years the boulder under which it's been hidden might wind up
in the river together with the entire bank after a landslide... Actually, wait -- there's a better
alternative! Abandoned ruins with real hiding places, far from human habitation, where a
normal person would never go, like Minas Morgul or Dol Guldur."
     "Yeah..." drawled the nazg  l, "you're real sharp. Dol Guldur it is. I took it there myself.
Used a glider and walked back, as no one else was there to operate the catapult. The
palant  r is in `receive' mode and so is invisible to the other crystals; it's in the hiding place
behind a six-sided stone in the rear wall of the fireplace in the Great Hall. It's in a pouch
made of sackcloth woven with silver, so it can be handled safely. The handles opening the
hiding place appear when two stones are pushed simultaneously: a rhombic one next to it
and the lower left one in the fireplace's arch, which can only be reached with one's foot.
Remember this, I won't repeat it."
     "Could I use this palant  r?"
     "Sure, why not?"
     "Well, you said that it's a magical crystal and I'm not supposed to use any magic."
     "The crystal is magical," Sharya-Rana explained patiently, "but the communication is not.
For example, if you use a palant  r as a sinker, the fish you catch will not be magical."
     "Then can you tell me how to use one?"
     "Who are you going to contact -- Gandalf? Although that's your business... It's not
complicated, actually. Are you familiar with optics?"
     "Yes, from a university course."
     "Then I'd better keep it simple. There are two constantly glowing orange sparks within a
palant  r. The line connecting them is the main optical axis of the crystal..."
Haladdin listened to the explanation quietly, marveling at how the nazg  l was neatly slotting
all that complex and voluminous information into his memory. Then, weirder things began.
The tempo of Sharya-Rana's explanations kept increasing (or, perhaps, time was slowing --
he would not have been surprised by that now), and although at any given moment
Haladdin's brain perceived only one phrase -- a glyph completely out of any context -- he
was absolutely certain that whenever necessary all this information about guerillas in the
Mountains of Shadow, palace intrigues in Minas Tirith, topography of L  rien, passwords to
contact Mordor resident spies in all the capitals of Middle Earth, and all the rest, will
immediately surface in his memory. So when suddenly it was over and a thick silence, as if
congealed with the morning chill, filled the camp, his first thought was that he had to
immediately find some poison in Eloar's medkit and always have it on him. Who knows
what might happen -- he now knows so much that he must never be captured alive.
     "Haladdin!" Sharya-Rana called; his voice was unusually quiet and halting, as if the nazg  l
was catching his breath after a long climb. "Come here, please..."
He's in a really bad way, Haladdin recognized belatedly, how could I not have seen it
myself, selfish bastard... what's wrong with him? Looks like heart trouble. Somehow, the
idea of heart trouble in a ghost did not seem ridiculous to him either then or in the next
moment, when he realized with terrible clarity: this is it! He has seen too many dying men
during those last few years not to be sure. The head of the sitting nazg  l drooped listlessly,
and he touched the shoulder of the man now kneeling in front of him.
     "Did you understand everything I've told you?" Haladdin could only nod; something caught
in his throat.
     "I have nothing more to give you. Forgive me. Only the ring..."
     "Is this because of me? Because you... for me..."
     "Nothing is free, Haladdin. Wait; let me lean on you... like that... The time was almost up,
but I made it. I did. The rest is not important. It's you who will walk this path now..."
Sharya-Rana was silent for a while, gathering strength. Then he spoke again, and his voice
was almost as even as before:
     "I will now remove the spell from my ring, and... I will be no more. You will take it; it will
empower you to act in the name of the Order of the Nazg  l when necessary. Our rings are
made of inoceramium, the most rare noble metal, a third again as heavy as gold, can't
confuse it with anything else. People fear those rings, with good reason; yours will be clean,
free of all magic, but you'll be the only one to know that. Will you be afraid?"
     "No. I remember it well: nothing can happen to a person who is not afraid. Is this really
ancient magic?"
     "None more ancient."
Suddenly he understood that Sharya-Rana was trying to smile but could not: the darkness
under his cowl, alive and flowing like a spring in the night not so long ago, now resembled a
brick of coal dust.
     "Farewell, Haladdin, and remember: you have everything you need to win. Repeat it as an
incantation and don't be afraid of anything. Now, take this... and turn away."
     "Farewell, Sharya-Rana. Don't worry, everything will be as it should be."
He carefully accepted a heavy dim ring from the nazg  l's hand and stepped away
obediently, so he did not see the wizard slowly push back his cowl. Only when he heard
behind him a moan filled with such anguish that his heart nearly stopped (so that's what "all
the World's pain, all the World's fear, all the World's despair" means!), did he turn around --
but there was nothing except quickly melting shreds of the black cloak where Sharya-Rana
just sat.
     "Was that you screaming?"
Haladdin turned around. His comrades, up in flash (the baron was still whirling the
wickedly glinting Slumber-maker over his head), were looking at him gloomily, awaiting
explanations.

     <h3>Chapter 19</h3>

     Perhaps a clandestine operations professional would have done it differently, but he was not
one, so he simply told them everything (save burdening Tzerlag with all the `parallel worlds'
stuff). He had a visit from a nazg  l (here's the ring) who told him that he, Haladdin, is the
only human able to prevent the Elves from turning all of Middle Earth into their fiefdom and
all Men into slaves. To do so, he must destroy Galadriel's Mirror within a hundred days.
He has decided to accept the mission, since there's no one else to do it. So far, he has no
idea how or what to do, but hopefully he'll come up with something.
Tzerlag looked the ring over warily and of course refused to touch it (the One preserve us!);
it was obvious that the doctor had ascended to stratospheric heights in his esteem -- as
opposed to the Nazg  l, who had descended a similar distance. It's one thing to send a man
to certain death -- war is war -- but to give a subordinate an impossible task is quite another.
A real frontline officer would never do that. To sneak into L  rien, where no man had ever
managed to enter, to locate, in a hostile town, what is undoubtedly a well-guarded object,
which for good measure can't be destroyed on site, but has to be lugged a hell of a
distance... In any event, he, Sergeant Tzerlag, scouting platoon leader of the Cirith Ungol
Rangers, will not so much as lift a finger until he has a tangible job to do; all these `go there --
don't know where' games are not for him. What? Well, that's your problem, Field Medic,
sir -- you're the senior officer here.
     Tangorn's statement was short: "I'm twice in your debt, Haladdin. Therefore, if the third
sword of Gondor can help your mission in any way, it is at your service. However, the
Sergeant is right -- infiltrating L  rien directly is suicide, we'll have no chance. We need
some sort of a ruse; as I understand it, that's your business."
That's how it came to pass that he went to sleep that night a leader of a company of three,
with the other two (accomplished military professionals, unlike him) looking to him for a
tangible task -- something, alas, which he did not have for them.
Haladdin spent the next day sitting by the stream; he noticed that his comrades were gently
relieving him of all housekeeping duties ("Your job now is to think"), and realized to his
acute displeasure that he was incapable of thinking to order. The sergeant had told him a
few things about L  rien (the Orocuen had once been in a raid near the edge of the Enchanted
Forest): about the paths neatly lined with stakes bearing the skulls of would-be unwanted
visitors; about the deadly traps and the roving bands of archers that shower you with
poisoned arrows and immediately melt into impassable thicket without a trace; about brooks
whose water puts a human to sleep and golden-green birds that gather around any creature
that enters the forest and give away its location with their lovely songs. After correlating
this information with what Sharya-Rana had told him about the mores and customs of the
Forest Elves he saw clearly that the Elvish society was totally closed to foreigners and any
attempt to get into the Enchanted Forest without a local guide would end within the first
mile.
     He spent some time considering using the glider that Sharya-Rana had left at Dol Guldur,
the launch pad for Mordor's infrequent flyovers of L  rien. Suppose he flies to the Elvish
capital (or, rather, is flown there by someone who knows piloting) and manages to land in
some inconspicuous clearing; suppose further that he actually steals or captures the Mirror;
then what? How would he get it out? There is no glider catapult there, nor anyone to
operate it, nor can any glider lift a thousand pounds. Another dead end. How about
capturing an Elvish officer and having him guide their company through the Enchanted
Forest traps? No doubt he'd guide them straight into a trap; if what he's learned about the
inhabitants of L  rien is true, an Elf would choose death over treason.
The notes found among Eloar's belongings haven't escaped his attention, either. Those
were mostly travel notes; the only item with useful content was an unsent letter, beginning
with `Dearest Mother!' and addressed to `Milady Eornis, clofoel of the Lady.' About half of
it was a description, remarkable in its artistic expressiveness, of the valley of river Nimrodel --
it seemed that both the Elf and his mother had special memories associated with that
location. In general it looked like the memory of those glades with their mallorns reaching
to the very sky, where bursts of golden elanors hide in the emerald-green grass, was what
had sustained the Elf's spirit among the hated sands of Mordor. Eloar expressed concerns
over the rumored break-up between his cousin Lin  el and her fianc ?, criticized his older
brother Elandar for `encouraging futile hopes in the hearts of his prot ?g ?s in Gondor and
Umbar,' congratulated his mother on the high honor of having been chosen to organize this
year's Festival of the Dancing Fireflies... plus much more of the same. They had already
guessed that Eloar's family was part of the highest elite of L  rien (Sharya-Rana explained
that it was difficult to exactly translate the Elvish title clofoel -- something between a lady-
in-waiting and a royal adviser). That the Elves were secretly infiltrating all parts of Middle
Earth and that one of those tasked with this covert activity was one Elandar undoubtedly
would be of much interest to the local authorities and counter-intelligence services, but had
no bearing on their mission. To sum it up: one more dead end.
Haladdin suffered thusly through the day, spent half a night nursing a cup of hideously
strong tea, and finally woke up Tzerlag and went to sleep without a single idea. It should be
mentioned that the day before, having observed his comrades preparing for the march,
calmly and substantially, he resolved firmly to break his head if it was necessary to come up
with at least an intermediate solution. Even he knew that an army without a mission quickly
goes to pot.
     He slept badly that night, waking intermittently and only truly sleeping close to sunrise. He
dreamed of a wonderful circus and himself -- a large-eared second-grader skipping school,
fingers sticky with cotton candy. Heart almost still, he is watching an unimaginably
beautiful girl in a golden cape, slowly walking across the dark abyss on a thinnest of golden
rays; he had never seen a tightrope walker to also juggle three large balls as she walks -- how
is this possible? Wait -- this is Sonya! NO! Stop her -- this is not her job, she doesn't know
how!.. Yes, I understand -- she can't turn back, going back is even scarier... Yes, if she
doesn't become afraid, nothing will happen to her, it's ancient magic. Of course it's magic:
those balls she's juggling are palant  ri! All the three Seeing Stones that are in reach in this
part of Middle Earth; we've collected them ourselves and turned them over to her... I
wonder: if I and Sonya each had a palant  r, would we be able to transmit a touch?
He woke up with that thought; it turned out to be late morning. The pot was bubbling
soothingly over a fire (Tzerlag had trapped a few partridges), while Tangorn was busy
polishing his beloved Slumber-maker. It was sunlight reflecting off the sword that woke up
Haladdin: his comrades obviously did not intend to wake up the doctor, but to let him get
enough sleep. He followed the reflection arcing swiftly over the boulders on the shadowed
side of the dale with his gaze and thought sadly: that's what would have no problems
reaching the palace of Lady Galadriel -- a light ray!..
     ...A brilliant flash lit up all the nooks of his tired brain when by a wonderful coincidence the
last dream thought and the first waking thought brushed wingtips before flying apart forever.
There's your solution -- send a light ray through a palant  r... He had such flashes of insight
before (for example, when he guessed and later proved that the signals traveling over nerve
fibers were electrical, rather than chemical, in nature), and yet each and every time there was
some magic novelty in the experience, like in a lovers' meeting. All creative work has two
components: the first insight and then painstaking work, sometimes for years, whose goal is
to make your insight available to other people. The nature of insight is always the same,
whether in poetry or criminal detection, nobody knows where it comes from (one thing is
certain, though -- it is not from logic); and the moment of insight, when for however brief an
instant you're equal to the One Himself, is the only thing truly worth living for.
     "Gentlemen!" he announced, coming up to the fire. "It looks like I've managed to put
together this puzzle after all, or at least a substantial part of it. The idea is simple: rather
than taking the Mirror to Orodruin, we will take Orodruin to the Mirror."
Tzerlag froze with a full spoon halfway to his mouth and shot a wary look to the baron: has
our commander gone nuts from all that thinking? Tangorn politely raised a brow and
suggested that the doctor have some partridges first, while they're hot, and only then broach
his extravagant hypothesis.
     "To hell with the partridges! Just listen! There are other magical crystals beside the Mirror --
the palant  ri. We have one of them, or at least we can get it whenever we want..."
He related everything he knew about the Seeing Stones, marveling at his comrades' ability,
given their lack of any education in magic or science, to precisely pluck the bits they
considered important from that torrent of information. Everyone was absolutely serious now --
the real work had begun.
     "...So, suppose we have two palant  ri -- one set to receive, the other set to send. If we drop
the `sender' into Orodruin, it will be destroyed, but not before managing to transmit a bit of
the Eternal Fire to the immediate environs of the `receiver.' Therefore, our task is to place
one such receiver next to the Mirror."
     "Well, fair sir," the baron said thoughtfully, "your idea certainly doesn't lack what they call
`noble madness'..."
     Tzerlag scratched his neck. "Better tell me how we're gonna get a palant  r into L  rien and
find the Mirror there?"
     "I don't know yet.      All I can say is what I said yesterday: I hope to come up with
something."
     "You're right, Haladdin," Tangorn agreed. "At least we have a concrete task for now: to
find another palant  r. I think that we should start in Ithilien, since Faramir is bound to know
what happened to the crystal that used to belong to his father. Besides, I'm certain that you
will quite incomparably enjoy conversing with the prince..."

     <h2>PART II -- The King and the Steward</h2>

     "And besides, when folk talk of a country covered with troops, it's but a kind of a byword at the
     best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his bootsoles."
     Robert L. Stevenson

     <h3>Chapter 20</h3>
     Ithilien, Emyn Arnen
     May 3, 3019

     "What time is it?" E:owyn asked sleepily.
     "Sleep on, sweetheart." Faramir rose on his elbow a little and gently kissed the top of her
head. Apparently it was a sharp movement in his sleep that woke up the girl; his wounded
arm kept going numb, but he never let on, knowing that she preferred to sleep stretched
along his body, her head pillowed on his shoulder. As usual, they have only fallen asleep
close to sunrise, so by now the sun's rays were already bathing the wooden buildings of Fort
Emyn Arnen, getting in the narrow window of their `princely bedchamber.' In the olden
times the prince was always up with the dawn; being a morning person, his best working
hours were before noon. Now, however, he slept late with a clear conscience: first, a
honeymoon is a honeymoon; second, a prisoner has nowhere to hurry.
However, she had slipped out from under his arm already, and her laughing eyes looked at
the prince with fake severity: "Listen, we'll totally undermine the public morals of the
Ithilien colony."
     "Like there's something there to undermine," he grumbled. E:owyn flitted to the foot o