is investigation.
Lady Galadriel: Let us call a spade a spade, clofoel of Tranquility. Do you believe that the
clofoel of the World had somehow treated with the Enemy and that the item dropped from
the sky was intended for her?
Clofoel of Tranquility: I did not say that, o radiant Lady. However, only the dancers and
the clofoel of the Festival had access to the `sky.' Had the Troll's gift been there during the
Dance of the Fireflies, they certainly would have sensed it, whereas the clofoel of the World
was the only one there after they left...
Lady Galadriel: Could the Elves that gather up the phials at sunrise have found that
Mordorian sack and taken it with them, out of ignorance?
Clofoel of Tranquility: They could have, o radiant Lady, and my Guards are working on
that possibility. Which is why I am only asking that the clofoel of the World be temporarily
removed from the investigation of `the case of the Mordorian sack' until this is ascertained,
nothing more.
Lord Cereborn: Yes, this does seem a reasonable precaution, isn't it?
Lady Galadriel: You're right as always, Lord Cereborn. However, as long as we allow the
possibility of treason by a clofoel, why don't we suppose that conspiring dancers have
indeed found the Mordorian sack that night and took it away for their own purposes? That
would explain why they still haven't found the source of such a powerful magical
disturbance...
Clofoel of Stars: How am I to understand your words, o radiant Lady? Are you accusing
me of conspiring?
Lord Cereborn: Yes, Lady, I have to admit that you have lost me, too... A conspiracy of
dancers -- is such a horror even possible?! With all that they're capable of...
Lady Galadriel: There is no conspiracy of dancers, Lord Cereborn, please calm down! I
was speaking hypothetically, as an example. As long as we're suspecting everybody, let it
be everybody, with no exceptions; but I believe it's time for us to listen to the clofoel of the
World.
Clofoel of the World: Thank you, o radiant Lady. First of all, I would like to defend the
clofoel of Stars, strange as it may seem. She is being blamed for being unable to find a
powerful magical source. However, I would like to suggest that this task may be akin to
looking for last year's snow.
Lady Galadriel: Could you be more clear, clofoel of the World?
Clofoel of the World: I obey, o radiant Lady! For some reason the esteemed clofoel of
Tranquility keeps talking about a magical object dropped on the `sky' and surreptitiously
removed from there as if it was a firmly established fact...
Clofoel of Tranquility: It is a firmly established fact, esteemed clofoel of the World. You
and I were not the only ones present at the Troll's interrogation -- at least three independent
witnesses can corroborate his testimony.
Clofoel of the World: Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, your memory is playing tricks on
you, as does your predilection to see conspiracies everywhere. The Troll testified that he
had dropped a sack the contents of which he knew nothing about. Why are you looking for
a physical object? Could it not have been swamp fire or some other intangible magical filth
that simply melted in the sun and poisoned the countryside? Actually, I dare not discuss
magical techniques in the presence of the esteemed clofoel of Stars.
Clofoel of Stars: I find your suggestion quite likely, esteemed clofoel of the World. More
likely than a conspiracy of the dancers, at any rate.
Lady Galadriel: Did you want to tell us anything else in connection with the investigation,
clofoel of the World?
Clofoel of the World: Most assuredly, o radiant Sovereigns! The esteemed clofoel of
Tranquility is convinced that Dol Guldur, whence the dragon came, is run by Mordor, but I
have reached a different conclusion. Certainly the notion that the Troll was working on
orders from the Nazg l is nonsense -- we know better than anyone that the Black Order is no
more. This Kumai's history, however, is very interesting. He was captured at the Field of
Pelennor and was rotting away at the Mindolluin quarry, as usual, when he was rescued
precisely because he was a builder of mechanical dragons. The Troll is still convinced that
it was his country's intelligence service that got him out, but it looks like the poor man has
been swindled. Queen Arwen's entourage has reasons to believe that all those escapes from
Mindolluin had been engineered by none other than His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, who
desires Mordorian military technology. According to Arwen's data, he had set up a special
super-secret service for this purpose, the core of which are the dead he had revived with the
Shadow spell; the little that is known about these characters includes the fact that they are all
named after predators. Esteemed clofoel of Tranquility, why do you think the Troll gave the
nickname Jackal to the supposed Mordorian intelligence agent when spinning his clumsy
legend? Simply because all such agents he had dealt with at Dol Guldur had such names! I
have no doubt that Aragorn's service controls Dol Guldur and had dispatched the dragon
here. This prompts the following question to the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility: what did
he talk about with Aragorn in private for over two hours, back during the latter's January
visit to Caras Galadhon?
Clofoel of Tranquility: Excuse me, but I had talked to him by order of the radiant
Sovereigns!
Lady Galadriel: Lord Cereborn, do you see the kind of interesting picture you get when
your information comes from not one, but two independent and not too friendly sources?
Lord Cereborn: Yes, yes, you're right, but I'm a little confused... This idea that the clofoel
of Tranquility is connected to those... those living dead -- it's just a joke, right?
Lady Galadriel: I do wish that it turn out to be a joke. Our first priority, then, is to destroy
Dol Guldur immediately, before they get ready...
Clofoel of Might: O radiant Lady, I will burn out that snake nest!
Lady Galadriel: I seem to remember that you and Lord Cereborn have already burned it out
not three months ago... No, I have other, more important plans for you. I will deal with
Dol Guldur myself this time: we have to knock down its walls once and for all -- then it may
work. Besides, I would really like to capture one of those beasties of Aragorn's alive. How
many people man that fake fortress, clofoel of Tranquility?
Clofoel of Tranquility: A few dozen, o radiant Lady, I can check...
Lady Galadriel: There's no need. Turn a thousand warriors over to my command, clofoel
of Might, I'm leaving immediately. As for all of you... Clofoels of Tranquility and the
World are to continue their joint investigation; I find that their cooperative work is
producing excellent results, keep it up. The dancers and the clofoel of Stars are to continue
looking for the magical object that had been dropped on Caras Galadhon, but only together
with the Guards, lest the finder decide to study its magical properties alone. As for you,
clofoel of Might, you will remain in charge here and watch over all of them: those are really
children who may set the house on fire while Mama is away. For example, clofoel of
Tranquility shouldn't play soldier with his beloved Border Guard, the clofoel of Stars
shouldn't preen before my Mirror, the clofoel of the World... do you understand me, clofoel
of Might?
Clofoel of Might: How could I not, o radiant Lady?! I know these scheming troublemakers
like the back of my hand!
Lord Cereborn: What about me, Lady?
Lady Galadriel: You, Lord Cereborn, are to represent L rien's supreme power, as usual:
show yourself to people, sign royal proclamations, and all that...
Chapter 63
Mirkwood, south of Dol Guldur
July 31, 3019
The rain seemed endless. Fall-like cold drizzle hung in the air for three straight days; when
thunder rolled, it seemed like the gods leisurely kicking water out of an enormous mattress
hanging almost all the way down to earth. Over the last three days the little creek that
Grizzly's company had just run up against had turned into a raging river tossing small stones
in its path. While six men were rigging a suspended rope bridge to ferry over the seriously
wounded, the rest of the soldiers stood motionlessly on the bank. Icy rivulets ran down their
tired faces, turning sweaty clothing into ice packs and steadily eroding whatever fighting
spirit they had left. Running, standing still, and icy chills -- a winning combination.
Grizzly looked at the taut rope suspending the first of the helpless wounded on chest and
waist harnesses, then at the ford where crossing horsemen fought the current, kicking up
coffee-colored water, and once again clenched his teeth. Rotten luck -- he had not expected
to spend nearly an hour crossing this creek, what with Elves already breathing down their
necks. Most of his men were still desperately fighting at Dol Guldur, their only task to
preoccupy the main forces of the Elvish army that had invaded Mirkwood the day before
yesterday. Grizzly himself, having miraculously slipped through the tightening noose of the
besiegers with a column of Mordorian and Isengardian engineers in his keep, was now going
south along the highway with all possible haste, concurrently diverting the Elvish pursuit
from Wolverine, who was escaping alone with papers in his backpack -- what of the Weapon
Monastery archives they had not yet sent down.
Grizzly's entire plan hinged on the Elves' sending only a small contingent to chase them,
one they would be able to repulse once joined to Aragorn's forces guarding the Brown
Lands portion of the highway against the real Mordorians. Everything was going all right
until they ran into this damned creek... time, they were running out of time! Grizzly stood
hidden by the mossy trunk of a Mirkwood fir, expecting to see silent shadows in gray-green
camouflage cloaks flit through the trees at any second. Actually, he was not likely to see
anything -- his last experience would be a short whistle of an Elvish arrow.
"Lieutenant, sir!" One of his subordinates showed up by his side. "The escorted persons
and personnel are all across. Your turn."
That was fast, Grizzly congratulated himself; then he froze, looking at the raging river and
treacherous water-slick boulders on its banks with a new, appreciative look. Well, Firstborn,
just you wait -- betcha we'll get all the lost time back with interest.
"Sergeant!"
"Yes, sir?"
"How many steel crossbows do we have?.."
...Lord Ereborn and his troop reached the creek about half an hour after Grizzly's company
disappeared in the rain on its other side. For about ten minutes the Elvish lookouts spread
around behind the trees and studied the opposite bank, seeing nothing. Then a volunteer,
one Edoret, his sword tied up on his back, carefully entered the stream and picked his way
forward between eddies and rapids, expecting a shot at any second. When the water reached
the middle of his thighs, he got swept off his feet, but the Elf could swim like an otter;
having luckily escaped the gauntlet of boulders, he soon reached a small backwater under
the opposite bank, where large heads of yellowish foam piled up between the branches of
semi-submerged willows strung with grassy debris. Edoret got out of the water, waved to
his friends and halted, figuring the best way to get through the boulders without breaking his
neck; the lookouts caught their breath and put their bows down -- it looked safe. The field
manual of any army in any world demands that the scout be given time to ascertain the
situation, but Ereborn was in a hurry to catch his prey before dark and decided to save on the
precautions. Five Elves followed Edoret at his sign.
When they were about knee-deep in the water, the loud call of a blue jay sounded over the
creek, and at that signal a crossbow volley hit from the other side. Three Elves were either
killed immediately or grievously wounded, drowned, and carried away by the stream; the
fourth had his shoulder shattered but managed to get out of the water and limp back into the
trees; the fifth fared worst of all -- the bolt hit him through the gut and stuck in the spine,
leaving him sprawled at the water's edge. Time seemed to stop for Edoret, trapped on the
enemy side: the scout had a brief moment to spy out the crossbowmen hidden higher on the
slope, even managing to count them (six), and soberly figured out the time it would take him
to unlimber his bound-up sword and close in on the enemy, slipping on the slick boulders all
along the way. He then made the only appropriate decision: dived back into the river and let
the stream carry him away. The bolt that sped after him only dinged the top of a water-
polished boulder, leaving a whitish scar smelling of singed chicken and immediately
obliterated by the rain.
Lord Ereborn was what is known as `a young man from a good family;' he had neither a
commander's gift nor at least a warrior's blood-tempered experience, but he did have an
abundance of vainglorious courage -- a dangerous combination. Seeing that they were
dealing with a small group of bowmen covering the retreat of the main force, rather than the
rear guard of that force, the lieutenant decided to bet the farm on the crossbows' major
weakness -- long reloading time (two shots per minute compared to two dozen for a bow) --
and ordered a frontal attack. The Dragon's Claw (his family sword) raised high, Ereborn
blew two trumpet blasts and waded into the stream amidst tremendous splashing. The
lieutenant had on a suit of armor of famed Gondolin sponge steel, almost as strong as
mithril, so he did not fear the arrows from the other bank.
A moment later he fully appreciated the difference between Angmarian hunting arbalests he
was familiar with and the next-generation steel crossbows developing twelve hundred force-
pounds at the bowstring. The three-ounce armor-piercing bolt hit Ereborn in the lower right
chest at eighty yards per second; the links of the Gondolin armor acquitted themselves
admirably, preventing the arrow from digging into the Elf's insides, but a half-ton blow to
the liver will knock out anyone. The bloodless face in a silvery helmet flashed once amidst
the rapids, the billowing fabric of the cloak was pulled under after it and disappeared forever --
the ancient armor turned into deadweight. The young armor-bearer who dashed to the
rescue got a bolt straight into the bridge of his nose, and the attack fizzled out.
Any Men, be they the savage Haradrim, the Riders of Rohan, or even Umbarian marines,
simply would have used their overwhelming numbers to charge across the cursed ford,
bridging it with their corpses and overwhelming the few defenders in a minute or two. Not
so the Elves -- the price of a Firstborn's life is way too high to lay them down like that on the
banks of some nameless Mirkwood creek. They have really come here to hunt (albeit a very
dangerous prey) rather than wage war; such attitude is not conducive to either scaling a
castle wall or running across a ford under fire. Retrieving their dead and wounded, the
Elves retreated under the cover of trees and showered the enemy with arrows. Pretty soon it
turned out that the archery duel was not going right, either (meaning to the Firstborn). The
rain was the culprit: the Elvish bowstrings were hopelessly wet and the arrows fell
harmlessly, plus it was nearly impossible to take decent aim. In the meantime, Dol Guldur
bolts kept finding their mark -- truly a device of Morgoth!
The Elves had to retreat further into the forest, leaving only well-hidden lookouts by the
riverbank. Sir Taranquil, Ereborn's second, counted the bodies laid out in a row, black
butterflies already appearing over them out of nowhere (even the rain was no obstacle!),
added the four washed away by the stream, gritted his teeth and swore to himself by the
thrones of the Valar that those crossbowmen, be they Orcs or whoever, would pay dearly,
and to hell with the Lady's order to capture some alive. The scouts he sent out came back
soon thereafter with bad news -- no better than the events of the past hour. Both sides of the
path were blocked by fallen trees -- the domain of the giant ants -- as far as the eye could see;
those thickets came straight up to the water both up and down the stream, so Taranquil's
idea to send some forces up and down the bank to force the enemy to spread out was a no-
go. "If we were to go back and around the thickets -- how far back do they stretch?" "No
idea, sir! Shall I check?" "No!" There was no time for such exploits -- much has been lost
already and night was coming. There was no way forward but a frontal attack.
A frontal attack does not have to be a headlong rush, though. Sir Taranquil was a much
more experienced commander than his predecessor and had no desire to cross the creek
playing a target. His fighters crept up to the trees by the ford, and the sniper duel resumed.
This time, though, the Elves have had time to swap in spare bowstrings, plus the rain let up a
little, so their arrows sped true now; finally the Elves (without a doubt the best archers in
Middle Earth) could show what they could do. The Mordorian crossbowmen fired prone
from behind boulders for cover, so their corpses were not visible from this side, but
Taranquil could warrant that they were down from six to two at most. Only after exploiting
his advantage in fire density to the fullest did he order another attack. The other bank
responded with a drawn-out and imprecise volley -- but from six crossbows once again! Are
these Morgoth's tricks? Did they get reinforcements?
Chapter 64
Suddenly all crossbow fire ceased and a scrap of cloth tied to a scabbard waved over the
boulders. The Elvish archers had already put five arrows through it by the time Taranquil
snapped out of it and ordered: "Cease fire!! For now," he added, quieter. "Are they
surrendering? Well, well..." The scrap waved for a short while longer and then the amazed
Elves beheld scout Edoret, alive and well, sword in hand. "Come over, now!"
"...Where's the rest of them?" Taranquil inquired after checking out the natural fort. There
were six crossbows in the gaps between the boulders but only two corpses (dressed in
Mordorian uniform without insignia, but neither one an Orc by appearance; one with an
arrow in his eye, the other with half his head taken off by Edoret's sword).
"I don't know, sir," the scout replied, abandoning the flask proffered by one of his comrades
and grudgingly ending his saga of how he, no doubt protected by Ulmo and Orom
themselves, managed to crawl to the enemy shore some three hundred yards downstream,
crept through the forest and attacked the enemy from the rear. "There were six of them at
first, but by the time I got to this nest there was only one bird in it," Edoret nodded at the
half-headed corpse, "he was firing all the crossbows in turn. I think that the others have
retreated, sir -- they were almost out of arrows. Shall we pursue?"
...When the rider from the ford caught up with Grizzly's team (this was the unheard-of
reward for the first man to be wounded -- to immediately carry the news), they were having a
quick rest stop in a large heather field, which abound here at the edge of the Mirkwood in
the Brown Lands. The lieutenant listened to the dispatch silently and his face thawed a little
for the first time in three days -- so far everything was going as he expected. So the Elves
did send only about a hundred hunters after them, the rest being stuck fast at Dol Guldur...
less however many the crossbowmen will get at that mad creek -- you really can't know
where you'll gain and where you'll lose. The most important thing is that if my boys
manage to hold out for at least a couple of hours (which they will, there's no doubt of that
now), then we'll join His Majesty's forces tonight: they had to have received messages
already and even now must be on a forced march to our rescue. Watch out, Firstborn! Did
we really make it?
I wonder where we should set up the new Weapon Monastery -- perhaps indeed in Mordor?
Wait, what am I saying -- after the Gondorian army gets involved, even the densest of these
smart guys will wise up. On the other hand, maybe that's for the best -- where're they to go
now? Guys, you've been serving the enemy for quite a while now -- want us to turn you
over to the Resistance with appropriate explanations? No? Sure they'll keep working on the
Weapon of Vengeance for us. Well, that's all in the future; right now my job is to deliver all
escorted persons safe and sound and let the commanders sort it all out. Really, who
would've thought that all those Jageddins and such would become the greatest treasure of
the Crown? Well, we won't be unemployed, either -- these guys take a lot of looking after.
Imagine, they did figure out how to turn those stupid `flying drops' into real weapons. That
the drops' accuracy would improve dramatically if they were made to spin in flight like an
arrow was fairly obvious, but how do you make the damn jar spin along its axis? They have
tried attaching spiral wings to it after the manner of arrow fletching -- total failure. Then
someone recalled the `ring of fire' -- a kind of fireworks they had in Barad-Dur -- a light ring
on an axis spun by powder-filled cylinders attached to it tangentially. So they married this
toy to the `drop' by drilling several channels sideways through the sides of the jar's mouth
where the flame exits, and the flying jar spun like a charm.
It is the description of this particular invention that Wolverine is now carrying in his
backpack on his escape through Mirkwood. Well, he's an old hand at this, the forest is
home to him, he should make it. Once he finds the boat with a stock of food hidden in the
reeds, he can make his getaway good. It's a long way to Minas Tirith and he will only be
able to sail at night, but it'd make no sense to hurry at this point. So even if their group
doesn't make it, His Majesty will acquire a fabulous new weapon!
A lookout interrupted his musings: "Lieutenant, sir! There's a rider up ahead, going at full
speed!"
When the lieutenant recognized the man who had dismounted near the head of the group, he
did not believe his eyes at first and then broke into a decidedly non-regulation grin: the Old
Man brought help all by himself, rather than trusting somebody else -- a real father to the
troops!
"Hail, Captain!"
"At ease, Lieutenant," Cheetah saluted curtly. His grey cloak (maybe one of those they
wore at the Field of Pelennor?) and the exhausted horse were all splattered with road mud.
"Make a defensive perimeter -- the Elves will be here in a quarter of an hour."
"How many?"
"About two hundred. They've crossed over into the northern Brown Lands the day before
yesterday, took the highway and are now coming to meet you."
"I see," Grizzly mumbled, remembering with a sudden clarity his moment of relaxation ten
minutes ago: did we really make it? Should've knocked on wood -- my dumb head, for
example.
"Captain, you see how many men I have... we can't hold out until the main force arrives."
"What main force, Lieutenant? There is no main force."
"But you..." was all Grizzly could say.
"I'm here, as you can see." The captain shrugged, the gesture momentarily making him
look absolutely civilian.
"So we were simply sold out?"
"Now, now, Lieutenant -- sold out?" Cheetah drawled mockingly. "Not `sold out,' but
`sacrificed in the name of the Highest State Interests.' You know, the way you did with the
defenders of Dol Guldur -- sacrifice the few for the many, right? Long story short -- Minas
Tirith has decided that now is not the time to meet the Elves `point against point,' so all our
forces and their support structures have pulled back from the highway. Dol Guldur? What
Dol Guldur? No idea what you're talking about."
"As I understand it, Captain, you didn't like that decision at all, sir?"
"I'm here, as you can see," the chief of Task Force F ?anor repeated deliberately. "Our
Service doesn't allow the luxury of a resignation..."
"Elves!!" came a cry from up ahead, full of not even fear, but a hopeless despondency.
"No panic!" roared Cheetah; leaping into the saddle, he stood in the stirrups and, raising a
narrow Elvish sword (yes, the very one from the Field of Pelennor!) to the solidly overcast
sky, ordered: "Square formation, Lieutenant! Horsemen to the right!"
Perhaps he added something else, appropriately historic, like the "Donkeys and scientists to
the middle!" that was sounded over the dunes of a neighboring World under similar
circumstances. But be that as it may, those words did not make it into the history textbooks
of Middle Earth: the approaching Elvish line was too far to hear, and none of those now
taking up defense next to Cheetah were destined to see the dawn of August the first. So it
goes.
Chapter 65
Lrien, Caras Galadhon
August 1, 3019
They have gathered in the Blue Hall of the Galadhon Palace at the crack of dawn at the
insistence of the clofoel of Stars. The morning felt like fall: crisp and cold like water in a
forest spring, so the chills that bothered Eornis (invisibly to anyone else) may have been due
to that; at least that was what she wanted to believe. What is the Master of the Stars up to?
Great Eru, what if her dancers found the palant r? No, that's impossible, but what if they've
figured out where it is? In the meantime, the main problem -- how to get to the Mirror,
closely guarded by clofoel of Might's men, today at noon -- remains unsolved, and she is still
bereft of ideas.
It has been clear to everyone for the past week that they had to look for a physical object
(the possibility of swamp fire or another magical emanation, suggested by the clofoel of the
World, has been duly checked and found untrue), and a methodical search began. When it is
said that the dancers of the clofoel of Stars `sniff out magic,' it is a fairly accurate metaphor:
they do work like sniffing dogs. Throughout the last few days the girls have been walking
around Caras Galadhon in a trance, feeling the air with outstretched palms, as if hunting a
bird hiding in the fallen leaves or playing a game of `hot-cold.' So far it was `cold' -- the
magical object was somewhere very close but beyond their reach. That was as Eornis
expected: she had been much more concerned with the Guards of the clofoel of Tranquility
and their banal police methods than with the dancers' magic.
Danger sneaked up on the clofoel of the World from an unexpected quarter. The clofoel of
Might, left in charge during the Lady's expedition to Mirkwood (the old battleaxe, who
never played his own games, was the only member of the Council she could trust), took to
his duties with excessive zeal. Among other things, his subordinates have replaced the
Galadhon palace guard, so that one fine morning the bewildered clofoels discovered that
they could not come into the Blue Hall for a Council session. All their attempts to reason
with the new guards failed against their implacable "no such orders!" Of course, the
misunderstanding was rectified right away, but now everyone was aware that the rules were
now being set by the clofoel of Might at his discretion until the Lady's return. Since the
Lady had directly forbidden the clofoel of Stars to access the Mirror while she was away (a
very sensible precaution), he simply barred all clofoels from the Moon Tower where the
magical crystal was kept -- "can't overdo a good thing." Should she fail to overcome this
hurdle in the few remaining hours, her well-crafted plan will be for naught and nothing will
save Eloar then...
"How is your search going, esteemed clofoel of Stars?" Eornis inquired with courteous
indifference while they were taking their places around the Council table.
"Not good. I have asked you all to gather here for a much more grave reason..."
Eornis looked at the master of the magical forces of L rien in amazement -- the woman
looked ill and her voice was strangely lifeless. It does look serious, doesn't it?
"I will not bother you with a detailed description of our magical rituals, esteemed clofoels of
the Council and you, o radiant Lord -- we have too little time... maybe no time at all. For
about a week now the dancers and I have been feeling strange pulsations in the Mirror's
magic field. First it was a light vibration, then it turned into real convulsions, and yesterday
those convulsions assumed a definite and highly unpleasant rhythm... Do none of you feel
anything?"
The clofoel of Memory broke the ensuing silence suddenly: "I feel it!" It was hard to tell
what shocked the Council more -- the report of the clofoel of Stars or this unheard-of
violation of protocol. Formally all clofoels were equals, but never before did any of the
minor ones -- all those palace librarians, nurses, and masters of ceremonies -- dare interrupt
the discussions of the Sovereigns and the Big Four. "It is exactly as you describe, o
esteemed clofoel of Stars! But I didn't know it was caused by the Mirror..."
How would you ever know that, you timid mouse, thought Eornis in annoyance. Do you
know anything but your dusty Beleriand scrolls and stupid sagas? But I -- how did I fail to
connect all those vibrations with the Mirror? So that's where my chills come from... The
question is -- do I acknowledge this fact and thereby assist that Star bitch?.. Yes, and I
should go even further, in fact.
"I believe that the esteemed clofoel of Memory has shown tremendous courage by openly
stating what we all feel but are afraid to mention aloud. The feeling we are having is a
strong irrational fear, is it not?"
"Maybe some girls feel strong unreasoned fear, but I personally fear no damn thing, clofoel
of the World! So don't you go around saying..."
"Thank you, esteemed clofoel of Might; we have taken your opinion into account. As I
understand it, the other members of the Council share the opinion voiced by the esteemed
clofoel of the World." The clofoel of Stars bowed slightly to Eornis. "However, our fear is
not irrational. The thing is that the Mirror... how should I explain this... it is somewhat
alive. The pulsating rhythm it is now creating is well-known in magic: it is the rhythm of
labor pains, but in reverse. It is a horrible thing. The Mirror is anticipating its demise and
our World's with it... It is anticipating, and trying to reach out to us, do you see? And the
stars over L rien seem to have gone mad..."
The clofoel of Tranquility leaned forward: "Could this be related to the magical object your
dancers can't find?"
"Yes, it could," the clofoel of Stars nodded glumly; she was obviously indisposed to develop
this idea further and even refrained from adding something appropriate about the Guards
having done no better.
"Wait, what does this mean -- demise of our World?" That was Lord Cereborn; imagine the
man actually waking up!
"Literally, o radiant Lord -- one moment it exists, the other it doesn't, and we along with it."
"Then do something! Clofoel of Stars! You, too, clofoel of Tranquility! I... I order you as
your Lord!"
What would we ever do without your orders, o precious liege -- that was what showed
clearly on the faces of the Big Four. The clofoel of Stars traded looks with the clofoels of
the World and Tranquility, lingering a bit on the clofoel of Might, and finally uttered:
"First, o radiant Lord, I must take a look at the Mirror immediately, without delay."
"Yes, of course! Go right away!"
So this is my end, thought the clofoel of the World detachedly, staring at the play of the
shades of green in the emerald of her ring. I can make no objection to her suggestion -- she
played her cards well and the entire Council, including that doddering fool, is on her side...
However, at that moment a figure clad in shining armor, its size and delicacy of features
resembling those of the stone idols guarding lower Anduin, loomed over the table. While
Eornis wondered idly whether the clofoel of Might ever took off his helmet and mithril mail
(to make love, say), the man informed them of his opinion of cowards and civvies -- which
are really one and the same to him! -- in plain soldier's language. He, for one, feels no such
ominous rhythms, and how would the clofoel of Stars and her dancers know this childbirth
rhythm, anyway? Aren't they supposed to be virgins? In any case, he has a direct order of
the Lady not to let the clofoel of Stars to the Mirror, and any attempt to violate that order
will be treated as rebellion, with all that follows... Yeah, and what did you think, o radiant
Lord?!
"Yes, yes," mumbled the Lord of L rien (obviously the inescapable wrath of the Lady
scared him a lot more than any hypothetical end of the world), "let's wait for her return from
the Dol Guldur expedition..."
"Come to your senses, radiant Lord!" Amazed, Eornis stared at the clofoel of Memory -- the
poor woman must've lost all grip on reality to utter such unthinkable words. "Our world is
already sliding into an abyss, the only one who has any chance of saving it is the clofoel of
Stars, and this helmeted idiot is standing on an order received ages ago! All right, can't
blame a man with a bronze lump for brains, but you all -- Almighty Eru, can't you rise above
your petty intrigues even now, on the eve of destruction?!"
Suddenly Eornis realized that the timid book mouse has simply voiced what the entire dozen
of lesser clofoels were thinking. Not just them, either, as became clear the next second when
the enraged clofoel of Might tossed his chair aside -- for the clofoel of Tranquility was
already coming around the table towards him, stepping softly as a tiger, hand on the hilt of
his sword, and a smile fit to freeze the Eternal Fire on his lips.
"You've just mentioned rebellion, esteemed clofoel of Might... that's an interesting thought,
isn't it, o radiant Lord?"
"Hey, you... both of you..." the Lord mumbled and shrank in his chair: the lesser clofoels
already backed to the walls, and...
"Stop!!" The solution that occurred to the clofoel of the World was akin to a flash of
lightning: all the pieces of the puzzle she had been trying in vain to assemble suddenly fell
together in the only possible way. "I am speaking to you, clofoel of Might!"
He probably would not have listened to anyone else, but over the last few years' worth of
intrigues she had always taken the Lady's side, and thus had some influence over him.
"The radiant Lady did mention -- in passing and half-jokingly -- that the clofoel of Stars was
not to preen before her Mirror. However, she had imposed no restrictions on the other
clofoels' access to the crystal. Do you agree, esteemed clofoel of Might?"
"Yes, that's true..."
"See? It's settled, then: by the will of the Council I will ascend the Moon Tower. Of
course, my magical capabilities can't even be compared to the talents of the esteemed
clofoel of Stars, but I'm at least capable of comprehensively reporting the Mirror's condition
to her."
The clofoel of Stars shook her head. "Do you have any idea, esteemed clofoel of the World,
how dangerous it is to look in the Mirror to anyone not protected by my magical talents, as
you've referred to them?"
"I have no intention of looking in the Mirror -- my selflessness doesn't go that far," laughed
Eornis. "As far as I know, the radiant Lady uses L rien's human visitors for this purpose;
they are mortal anyway, sooner or later. We happen to have one handy -- that flying Troll. I
hope he hasn't been liquidated yet, has he, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility?"
"No, not yet. We'll have to fix him up some, though: when the poor slob read his testimony,
he totally fell apart -- first tried to kill himself, then went catatonic."
"That's no obstacle to what we need to do. So it's agreed -- you will turn the Troll over to
me before noon?"
"Agreed. However, esteemed clofoel of the World... I'm a little concerned for your safety.
A Troll is a Troll -- a wild and unpredictable creature. The three of us will go to the Moon
Tower together -- you, me, and him. That'll be safer."
"I am so touched by your concern, esteemed clofoel of Tranquility."
"Not at all, esteemed clofoel of the World."
Chapter 66
The sun was already approaching its zenith when they have passed the guards of the clofoel
of Might at the entrance to the Moon Tower. The narrow spiral staircase forced them to go
single-file. The clofoel of Tranquility went first, easily taking every other step; of course, he
was not afraid of the Troll following him and had not even handcuffed him, relying on a
Web spell instead. Milady Eornis brought up the rear, going over the details of her plan for
one last time. Yes, there's a chance of success, but it's really minuscule, and the worst part
is that everything depends on a myriad of coincidences, rather than her own abilities. In any
event, her long game with the clofoel of Tranquility had reached its end -- only one of them
will be coming out of this tower, with only chance determining which one...
The top chamber of the Moon Tower was a round room about ten yards in diameter, the
Mirror its only furniture. The crystal was set in a mithril setting with curved legs a foot and
a half long, so that the whole thing resembled a small table. Six elongated windows offered
an excellent view of Caras Galadhon. It's funny, Eornis reflected in passing, that this Troll
is probably the only Man to ever see the real sight of the Elvish capital, but he won't relate it
to anyone. Those guests that we intend to release are never allowed beyond the talien next
to Nimrodel, so those simpletons leave believing that we actually live on those perches...
"Bring him up to the Mirror, clofoel of Tranquility, but don't remove the Web just yet..."
Only after uttering these words did the clofoel of the World realize that the Mirror was,
indeed, in a bad way. The crystal was ink-black, the blackness lit up by pulses of scarlet
light at regular intervals; it felt distinctly like the Mirror was emitting one endless silent
scream of terror and pain. Maybe it's not good for it to be close to a palant r? she wondered
belatedly. Whatever, can't change anything at this point. Please endure this a bit longer,
she thought at the Mirror; this will all be over in a few minutes. As if in response, the
crystal almost exploded from inside with a singularly powerful scarlet flash which for some
reason reminded her of the Eternal Fire... The thought came and went as other matters
occupied her attention: the clofoel of Tranquility had apparently noticed (felt, to be precise)
that the room was not as empty as it seemed. According to her plan, that was exactly what
he was supposed to do, without any prompting from her. Imagine the irony of relying on
one's mortal enemy's intuition and professionalism!
The clofoel of Tranquility had thoroughly scanned the room and saw nothing suspicious, as
was to be expected. It's useless to search for anything magically here -- the Mirror generates
a magical field of such intensity as to drown those of all other objects. A totally empty room
and a low `table' on thin legs... Could I have hidden an object here, a small one? Yes, I
could have... sure I could! Wait -- a small object? What did the Troll say? "About the size
of a child's head!" So that's why you wanted to get up to the Mirror!..
"Clofoel of the World! You're under arrest for treason. Stand against the wall!"
They stood facing each other, the Mirror between them; the clofoel of Tranquility had his
sword out -- he was not about to give that snake any chances, she was mortally dangerous as
it was.
"Unclip the dagger from your belt... now the stiletto in your left sleeve... Kick them away
with your foot! Now, we'll talk. The magic object that Star fool's dancers can't find is
attached to the bottom of the `table,' right? One has to drop on all fours before the Mirror to
see it -- surely no one will think of that. It's impossible to find it magically -- the dancers are
like a dog that has to find a perfumed handkerchief hidden in a sack of crushed pepper. An
excellent idea, my compliments! By the way, what is it?"
"A palant r."
"Whoa!" He apparently never expected that. "Whose gift is it -- the Enemy's?"
"No, Aragorn's."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"It's the truth. His Majesty Elessar Elfstone is a farsighted Man, he never puts all his eggs
in one basket. You think you're the only who talked to him privately back in January? Get
rid of me, and he won't help you in your game against the Lady."
"You're wrong, my dear: the fewer one's allies, the more valuable they become, so he's not
going anywhere. You, however, can look forward to a real education under the Mound: the
boys there are quite creative, and I'll make sure you won't die too quickly."
"To do that you'll have to offer proof of my treason, which means turning the palant r over
to the Council. Would it not be better to keep it and turn me into your agent in the Lady's
retinue? I can offer a lot, you know."
"All right, enough talking! Face the wall, now! Sit down on the floor! On the floor, I said!
How did you attach it -- with magic?"
"No, just the sticky ankasar juice," she replied, and then added pleadingly, staring at the
wall: "Please listen to me..."
"Quiet!"
The last word came out slightly muffled: apparently, the clofoel of Tranquility behind her
back had already bent over, feeling the bottom side of the crystal -- meaning that it was time.
While pretending to conduct a pitiful loser's haggle, Eornis had been pushing through the
dense crashing waves of the Mirror's magic field to the sticky gray ropes of the Web spell
binding the Troll. Every spell carries an imprint of its caster, making him the only one able
to lift it -- doing so is a mortal danger to all others, and usually useless, too. Fortunately, the
Web is one of the simplest spells, purely technical and almost bereft of a personality imprint,
so it's worth a risk. Now everything will hinge on what the freed Troll will do. Of course,
he's been broken by knowledge that he had somehow told everything he knew to the enemy;
the question is -- how broken? If he had turned into jelly, I'm finished; but if he's still a Man
and would like to at least pay back the one who tricked him into a betrayal, I can help him. I
help him, he helps me...
Suddenly Eornis ripped at the Web the way one rips a bandage stuck to a wound -- in one
swift movement, the only possibility here. A horrible pain knocked her out for a moment;
so this is what lifting another's spell is like, even when it's a trifle like the Web being
removed by an Elvish clofoel... By the time she surfaced from her unconsciousness a few
seconds later, it was all over -- the clofoel of Tranquility lay prone on the floor near the
Mirror, his head turned at an unnatural angle, as if trying to see something behind his back.
The Troll must have fallen on the Elf kneeling before the Mirror from behind and simply
wrung his neck with bare hands; he was now on a windowsill, clearly about to escape, which
Eornis had no intention of stopping. She smirked: the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility had
released the Troll and imprudently looked away, while I had no time to do anything. It
happened so fast, esteemed Members of the Council! I am eternally grateful to the late
clofoel: had he not volunteered to accompany me, undoubtedly I would have been dead...
Kumai had only a split second to sweep his gaze over the amazing panorama of the Elvish
capital while taking his last step; all those towers and suspension bridges fell on him like a
theatrical decoration while six-sided flagstones raced at him. His last thought was: what if
those bastards piece me together again?..
Perhaps they would have (who really knows the limits of the Elves' power?), but they had
no time left for that or anything else. The sun was already at zenith, so Eornis took the
palant r out of its protective silver-shot sack and brought it right next to the maddened
Mirror, which looked fit to gallop away on its bent little legs. After waiting the prescribed
time, the clofoel of the World brought together the two orange sparks within the magic
crystal, thus switching it to `send-receive' mode...
Chapter 67
Arnor, the Tower of Amon Sul -- Mordor, western edge of Orodruin
August 1, 3019 of the Third Age, a quarter-hour before noon
"Hold it!" Gandalf ordered in a voice hoarse with strain, as if he was supporting an immense
weight -- which he was, no matter that the weight was not a physical one. All the four
wizards of the White Council were totally exhausted, sweat rolling down their wax-like
faces as they were ready to collapse. This job really took a pentagram, but their numbers
only sufficed for a square... ah, Saruman, Saruman!
A huge map of Middle Earth, drawn somewhat schematically but with careful attention to
scale and orientation right on the flagstones, took up the entire floor. A palant r rested in its
middle, which corresponded to Arnor, casting flashes of colored light -- yellow, blue,
greenish -- haphazardly in all directions. The efforts of the White Wizards were not in vain,
though -- slowly the flashes merged into a steady emanation which then separated into
needle-thin colored rays. Gandalf uttered a short `fixing' spell, which served as a "Down!"
command; the wizards repeated it in unison and let themselves relax, as if they have just put
down a cupboard full of crystalware they have been carrying. The first part of the job was
done.
The colored rays that now spread out across the floor and beyond the walls from the palant r
in the center joined the crystal to the other six throughout Middle Earth. It was impossible
to tell exactly where the other palant ri were, but to know the direction was also useful.
First, Gandalf studied the golden-yellow ray leading due west into the ocean. Yellow meant
that the other Seeing Stone was in regular working state, meaning that this was the palant r
of Kirden the Ship-builder, king of the Western Elves; the wizard made sure that the ray
went through the part of Lindon shore where the Tower of Emyn Beraid stood and nodded
in satisfaction: their map had been drawn accurately and they could go on.
The two clouded-green rays that formed an almost straight line, leading north-north-west to
the Bay of Forochel in one direction and south-south-east to the delta of the Great River in
the other, were of no interest to him: those were the sunk palant ri, the two on the lost ship
of Prince Arvedui and the one carried by the Anduin from Osgiliath. The ones that had
prompted this whole exercise were azure-blue (meaning that the palant ri were working but
enclosed in silver-shot protective sacks) and led south-east, only very slightly apart. To
Mordor. Damn it all!
"Where did they get a second crystal, Gandalf?"
"Look at the map -- see any lines leading to Emyn Arnen? Looks like His Highness the
Prince of Ithilien has kept up his pre-war games with the East and handed Denethor's
palant r to those spawn of Morgoth, the asshole! I wish Aragorn had strangled him back at
that hospital..."
"Now, now, Gandalf! What if Aragorn and Faramir had simply made a secret alliance
against the Elves, using the remnants of the Orcs? Then it could've been Elessar Elfstone
himself that gave the Minas Tirith palant r to the Orcs. I mean, everybody is now working
against the Elves, including ourselves, just separately."
Even so, Gandalf thought in consternation, the overall picture is no clearer. Vakalabath's
prophecy has many possible meanings, but it can be read as "Magic will depart Middle
Earth with the palant ri" -- today at noon -- or not at all. How can this be? He stared at the
dark-blue rays again: one goes through Barad-Dur and the eastern part of N rnen, the other
slightly to the west, through Gorgoroth and Orodruin... Orodruin?! So that is what they've
decided to do!
Or, perhaps... no, there are no such coincidences! Looks like those Mordorian idiots have
decided to drop their crystal into the Eternal Fire, thereby destroying it. What do they hope
to accomplish? Sure, this will tweak the magic fields of the other palant ri and even the
Mirror, but, really, not as drastically as to banish magic from Middle Earth! Even if another
palant r that happens to be in receiving mode is destroyed at the same time...
"Gandalf, look! Something strange is happening to the eastern ray!"
The head of the White Council has already noticed something weird about the ray going
through eastern Mordor: it started changing color and brightness at fixed intervals, as if
storm clouds were moving across an evening sky.
"But that's impossible!" the wizard in the blue cloak spoke again. "There's only one thing
in all of Middle Earth capable of influencing a palant r's field -- the Mirror. But the Mirror
is with the Elves in L rien while the palant r is in Mordor..."
A terrible guess pierced Gandalf's brain. "That palant r is not in Mordor," he rasped,
pointing at the map. "Its ray goes through eastern Mordor, true, but first it goes through
Caras Galadhon -- look at the map! -- and that's where it is, right by the Mirror!"
"Wait -- could this be a coincidence? The Elves of L rien have never had a palant r, and
Kirden's is in place."
"They haven't before, but they do now! I don't know who made Lady Galadriel this gift --
Aragorn, Faramir, or the Orcs -- but she put the crystals together for some reason. At noon
the Orcs -- or maybe they aren't Orcs, how am I to know? -- will drop their palant r into
Orodruin, the Eternal Fire will jump from the Orodruin palant r to the L rien one and from
there to the Mirror, and then it really will be all over! And when the Mirror is destroyed, all
the other Seeing Stones will turn into clots of Eternal Fire, including ours." At those words
the White wizards shrank back involuntarily, as if the deadly fire was already singeing their
faces. "There's Vakalabath's prophecy for you! Make a triangle, quick! Help me -- perhaps
we'll be in time..."
Gandalf kneeled in front of the palant r. A dense chain of blue-violet sparks shimmered
into existence between his palms, and he began winding it around the crystal exactly as if he
was winding woolen thread into a ball; a tangy freshness came into the air, as if a lightning
had struck somewhere nearby. The other three wizards have already poured all their power
into the head of the White Council and now stood around him motionless and silent, like
statues; none of them dared think of the all-consuming fiery dragon that could hatch out of
its crystal egg at any moment. Gandalf's hands moved faster and faster; hurry, White
Wizard, there's a lot at stake! A lot? How about everything?
Finally he sank to the floor and just sat there for a few seconds, eyes closed. He had to use
his teeth to uncork the flask of Elvish wine -- his hands were now forever numb, as if frozen.
Holding the flask between insensate palms, he drank a couple of swallows and handed the
flask to Radagast without looking. They made it, despite everything... The ray of light
going from their palant r to the one at Orodruin was now scarlet-purple rather than blue; the
moment those guys take their crystal out of its protective silver net, Gandalf's spell will coil
around it like a blue snake. He wouldn't want to be the one to touch that ball... Now it's
time to catch my breath and consider how we might grab that palant r which will surely
remain lying there among the rocks of Orodruin.
***
Haladdin tore himself away from contemplating the scarlet gold-tinged lava boiling almost
at his feet in the crater. Squinting and shielding his eyes with his palm, he estimated the
position of the sun, already a bit past noon. L rien lies substantially to the west of Mordor,
so noon at Orodruin should be about a quarter-hour before L rien's. Looks like it's time to
take the palant r out of its bag and wait for the Mirror to appear in it -- provided that Kumai
did his job... He rebuked himself: don't dare think that! You know with absolute certainty
that he did everything exactly as requested. You can look forward to killing that woman --
all right, Elf-woman, what's the difference -- in just a few minutes. Well, that's been mulled
over a thousand times. I suppose I could ask Tzerlag (there he is, snoozing by the rocks --
nerves of steel!) to `carry out the sentence,' but that'd be really...
The voyage to Orodruin was not too hard. Runcorn accompanied them to the Hotont pass --
the ranger wanted to scout a good place for a house in the upper reaches of the Otter Creek
anyway -- where Matun met them. Matun viewed the rendezvous with `Haladdin's scouting
team' as a short vacation from the front lines -- war still raged home in Mordor, whereas
here, beyond the Mountains of Shadow, everything was nice and quiet. By that time
Faramir had made every possible effort to make peace with the Shadow Mountain Trolls,
fully succeeding in his diplomatic efforts last week when a delegation of three Trollish
elders visited Emyn Arnen. Someone -- let's not point fingers -- did not like this rapport one
bit, so a special assassination team waited for the elders at the outskirts of the Settlement.
However, Baron Grager's intelligence service acquitted itself admirably: not only did it
avert the attempt, it proved that the provocation was directed from beyond the Anduin. The
assassins that survived the battle were let go with an order to ask His Majesty to vary his
methods a bit. In any event, Grager's proofs were enough for the elders: they broke a
traditional flatbread with the Prince of Ithilien and departed, leaving their younger sons to
serve in the prince's personal guard as a sign of their covenant. By that time the Ithilienians
have already established lively barter trade with the Trolls without waiting for any royal
permissions. The Elves controlling the Cirith Ungol pass watched all that with hot fury but
could do nothing about it -- not enough manpower.
"How's Ivar doing, Matun? How's maestro Haddami -- still amusing you all with his
jokes?"
"Haddami got killed," the Troll answered solemnly. "Gods rest his soul, he was a worthy
man, even though Umbarian..." He looked at Haladdin's face and mumbled in
embarrassment: "My apologies, sir! I wasn't thinking. What about that Gondorian of
yours?"
"He got killed, too."
"I see."
They only spent a few hours in Ivar's camp. The lieutenant tried several times to detail
guards to accompany them to Orodruin ("It's real dicey on the plains right now, Easterling
patrols are all over the place"), but the sergeant only chuckled: "You hear that, Matun?
They're gonna lead me through the desert!" He was right: helping an Orocuen in the desert
is like teaching a fish to swim, and a smaller company is much better in their situation. So
the two of them made the journey together, ending the way they started.
Yes, it was time. Haladdin untied the sack, pushed apart its stiff silver-embroidered sides
and took the heavy crystal ball in his hands, looking for the orange sparks in its pale
opalescent depths.
***
Here in Amon S l the distant palant r at Orodruin was reflected as a large soap bubble some
six feet in diameter. They could plainly see the unknown man turn the crystal around in his
hands -- huge images of hands moved around the surface of the ball, large and clear enough
to read the palm lines.
"What's happening, Gandalf? Explain!" The wizard in the blue cloak could remain silent
no longer.
"Nothing. That's the problem: nothing is happening." Gandalf's words had an even and
lifeless quality. "My spell hasn't worked. I don't understand why."
"Then it's all over?"
"Yes. It is."
Silence reigned; everyone seemed to be listening to the sound of the last grains of sand
streaming down the hourglass of their lives.
"Did you have a good time playing?" The voice that broke the silence was mocking, but
still as beguiling as ever. "'History will vindicate me,' eh?"
"Saruman?!"
The former head of the White Council was already heading into the hall with his firm wide
stride, waiting for no permission or invitation, and everyone immediately felt that the term
`former' was absolutely inappropriate.
He looked intently at the rays of light emanating from the palant r. "Vakalabath's
prophecy, isn't it, Radagast?" He addressed the forest wizard to the exclusion of all the
other Council members. "Aha... this ray leads to Orodruin?"
"They want to destroy the Mirror," a slightly revived Gandalf put in.
"Shut up," Saruman told him without looking at him, and thrust his suddenly stone chin at
the L rien ray, which had just dimmed again: "There's your Mirror -- enjoy the sight,
wannabe demiurge..."
"Can we help you, Saruman?" Radagast said soothingly, trying to mend bridges. "All our
magic..."
"Yes, you can, by getting out of here immediately. Stick all your magic up your butts:
haven't you understood yet that the man on Orodruin is absolutely immune to magic? I will
try reasoning with him logically, perhaps that will work... Move!" he yelled at the Council
members milling uncertainly at the doors. "Get the hell out, I said! This place is going to
blow so high, you'll be collecting your balls for weeks!"
Paying no further attention to the quickly departing White wizards, he handled the palant r
to put it into `send-receive' mode and called softly: "Haladdin! Doctor Haladdin, can you
hear me? Please respond."
Chapter 68
A few excruciatingly long seconds passed before a surprised voice sounded from the depths
of the palant r: "I hear you! Who's calling me?"
"I could have introduced myself as a nazg l and you would have never known the lie, but I
will not. I am Saruman, head of the White Council."
"The former head..."
"No, present." Saruman glanced over his shoulder at the white cloak abandoned by Gandalf
in his haste lest the thing catch on something as he careened down the stairs. "For about
three minutes already."
For a few seconds the palant r was silent.
"How do you know my name, Saruman?"
"There aren't that many people in Middle Earth who are absolutely closed to magic. It
stands to reason that the Nazg l would pick one such to implement Vakalabath's
prophecy..."
"Pardon me?"
"There's an obscure ancient prophecy saying that one not-so-wonderful day `magic will
depart Middle Earth with the palant ri.' The date of this event is encoded in a complicated
manner; we have been combining the numbers in that prophecy and expecting this event at
several dates, but so far it has not happened. Today is one of those days, and as I understand
it, the Nazg l have decided to use Vakalabath to destroy the palant ri and the Mirror -- `the
World is Text...' You will now drop your palant r into Orodruin, the palant r in L rien will
burn the Mirror with Eternal Fire, and the magical world of Arda will perish forever."
"Why would it perish?" the palant r asked after a second.
"Ah, I see. Apparently, you have dealt with Sharya-Rana, correct?"
"Why would you think so?" There was a hint of surprise in Haladdin's voice.
"Because that is his theory of Arda's make-up: two worlds, a `physical' one and a `magical'
one, joined through the Mirror. The Elves, having crossed from the other world into this
one, will unavoidably undermine its very existence with their magic, so the Mirror should be
destroyed in order to isolate those worlds to their mutual benefit. Close enough?"
"Do you mean to say that it's all a lie?" Haladdin responded coldly.
"Not at all! It is one of the theories of the World's structure, but no more than that. Sharya-
Rana, whom I respect greatly, held this theory, but to act in accordance with it..."
"What do the other theories say? Please tell me, esteemed Saruman; we still have time.
When it's time for me to drop the palant r into Orodruin, I'll give you warning."
"You are very gracious, Haladdin, thank you. Very well -- the mainstream opinion is that
the `physical' and `magical' worlds are indeed separate and the Mirror and the palant ri did
indeed originate in the magical one, but they are not here, in the physical world, by chance.
Those crystals constitute the very foundation of that other world's existence, like that fairy-
tale needle -- remember, the one hidden in an egg which is hidden in a duck which is hidden
in a hare which is hidden in a chest? By destroying the Mirror with the palant ri you will
simply destroy the entire magical world. The irony is that they have been placed in this non-
magical world precisely for safekeeping, just like the chest in the fairy tale. Of course, you
might say that these are that other magical world's problems for which you care not. I have
to disappoint you -- the worlds are symmetrical."
"You mean to say," Haladdin spoke slowly, "that there's something which is the basis of our
world's existence that's been placed for safekeeping in that other, magical world? Our own
needle in an egg and so forth?"
"Precisely. By destroying the other world you will doom ours. Sometimes twins are born
conjoined; obviously, if one kills the other, he, too, will soon die of blood poisoning. When
you drop the palant r into Orodruin's maw, the other world will perish instantly, while this
one will start dying a long and painful death. Nobody knows how long this dying will last --
a minute, a year, a century -- would you like to find out?"
"That's if you're right and Sharya-Rana is wrong."
"Certainly. Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct? A radical
experiment, as they call it in your circles?"
The palant r was silent -- Haladdin was at a loss for words.
"Listen, Haladdin," Saruman continued with apparent curiosity, "have you really started all
this to put the Elves in their place? Aren't you overestimating their importance?"
"Something like this is better to overdo."
"Then you do believe that the Elves are about to control the entire Middle Earth? My dear
doctor, this is bizarre! Whatever the Elves' capabilities are -- and they are greatly
exaggerated by rumor, believe me -- there's only about fifteen thousand of them, perhaps
twenty thousand, in the entire Middle Earth. Think about it -- a few thousand, and there will
be no more; while there are millions of Men, and their numbers keep growing. Believe me
that Men are already strong enough not to be afraid of Elves; this is some kind of an
inferiority complex on your part!.."
Saruman continued after a pause: "Sharya-Rana is correct that our Arda is unique: it is the
only World which allows direct contact between the physical and magical worlds, where
their inhabitants -- Elves and Men -- can talk to each other. Just think of the possibilities this
offers! In a very short time you and the Elves will live together in harmony, enriching each
other with your cultural achievements."
"Live as directed by the Far West?" Haladdin smirked.
"That depends on you. Do you really lack minimal self-respect, enough to think yourselves
clay in the hands of some otherworldly forces? I'm honestly ashamed to hear this."
"So a time will come when the Elves will look at Men as something other than dung under
their feet? I wish I could believe you!"
"There was a time when Men would eat anyone not from their cave, but now you have
learned to behave a little differently, haven't you? That's exactly how it will be with you
and the Elves, if you give it time. You are so very different, and that's precisely what makes
you need each other, believe me."
The palant r fell silent; Haladdin slumped as if a rod had been taken out of his spine.
"Who's that, sir?" Tzerlag, standing some ten paces away, lower on the slope, looked at the
crystal with superstitious fear.
"Saruman, Lord of Isengard, Head of the White Council, and so on and so forth... He's
trying to talk me out of dropping the palant r into the Eternal Fire, lest the whole world
perish."
"Is he lying?"
"I think so," Haladdin answered after some thought.
In reality he was not sure of that at all; the opposite, in fact. Saruman could very well have
said something like "the Nazg l have lost the fight and decided to destroy the world with
your hands on their way out" and persuasively corroborate that theory (how did Haladdin
know that the Nazg l were the good guys? Only from Sharya-Rana's words); he could, but
he did not, and somehow that fact made Haladdin trust everything the White Wizard was
saying. "Have you decided to find out experimentally which theory is correct?" Yes, that's
how it comes out.
He has succeeded, Haladdin realized with horror. I have doubts, and therefore I have lost
the right to act: to interpret doubt for the defendant's benefit is too deeply ingrained in me.
To do what I intended while knowing of the possible consequences (which I now do, thanks
to Saruman) one has to be either God or a madman, and I'm neither. Nor can I do it and say
later that I was following orders -- that's not my style... Plus you really don't want to fry
that Elvish beauty with your own hands, right? Right, I don't, to put it mildly -- is that a plus
or a minus?
Forgive me, guys... forgive me, Sharya-Rana, and you, Baron! (In his mind he went down
on his knees.) Everything you've done has been for naught. I know that I'm betraying you
and your memory, but the choice I have to make is beyond me... or any Man -- only the One
can make such a choice. All I can do is block my palant r from transmitting and drop it into
Orodruin; let what may come do so without my participation. I'm not cut out to decide the
fate of the World -- I'm made from a different kind of clay... and should you want to say:
from crap, not clay -- I accept that.
As if to confirm this decision of his, the palant r suddenly lit up from the inside and showed
him the interior of some tower with narrow windows, something resembling a low table on
curved legs, and a deathly pale -- and somehow even more beautiful for that -- face of Eornis.
Chapter 69
It is truly amazing what trifles change the course of history sometimes. In this case the
matter was decided by the interruption of blood flow to Haladdin's left calf muscle due to
the uncomfortable position he had assumed over the past few minutes. The doctor got a
cramp in his leg; when he got up awkwardly and leaned over to relieve the pain in his calf,
the smooth globe of the palant r fell out of his hand and rolled slowly down the crater's
almost-level outer slope. Tzerlag, who stood a little below, interpreted his commander's
muffled oath as an order and lunged at the crystal ball...
"No-o-o-o-o!!" The frantic yell shattered the silence.
Too late.
The Orocuen grabbed the palant r and froze in an awkward pose; his body shimmered with
bluish-purple sparks, as if frosted. Desperately Haladdin rushed to his comrade and knocked
the devil's toy out of his hands without thinking, in one motion; it took him a couple of
seconds to realize with astonishment that it had not harmed him.
The purple sparks went out, leaving a strange frosty smell behind, and the Orocuen fell
slowly sideways onto the gravel; Haladdin heard a strange clunking sound. He tried to lift
the sergeant and was amazed by his body's weight.
"Doctor, what's happening to me?" The Orocuen's face, usually expressionless or smiling,
showed fear and bewilderment. "Can't feel my hands or feet... at all... what's happening?"
Haladdin took his wrist but jerked his hand back in surprise: the Orocuen's hand was cold
and hard as stone... Merciful God, it is stone! A couple of fingers on Tzerlag's other hand
broke off in the fall, and the doctor was now looking at the fresh break shimmering with tiny
crystals -- snow-white porous calcite of the bones and the darkly pink marble of the muscles
shot with bright-red garnet of blood vessels -- and marveling at the astonishing exactness of
this stony imitation. The Orocuen's neck and shoulders were still warm and living; feeling
the arm, Haladdin realized that the boundary between stone and flesh was a bit higher than
the elbow, slowly moving up the biceps. He was about to utter some comforting lie like `a
temporary loss of sensation due to an electrical discharge,' concealing the nature of the
problem with fancy medical terminology, but the sergeant had already noticed his mangled
hand and understood everything.
"Don't leave me like this, hear? The strike of mercy -- now's the time..."
"What happened, Haladdin?" the palant r came to life with Saruman's alarmed voice.
"What happened?! My friend is turning to stone, that's what! Your work, bastards?"
"He touched the palant r?! Why did you let him..."
"Devil take you! Lift the spell right now, you hear?"
"I can't do that. It's not my spell -- why would I need to do that? -- and it's impossible to lift
someone else's spell, even for me. It must have been how my stupid predecessors have tried
to stop you."
"I don't care who did it! Do what you can or else drag the one who did it over to your
palant r!"
"They're all gone already... I regret this deeply, but I can do nothing for your friend even at
the cost of my own life."
"Listen, Saruman." Haladdin managed to get hold of himself, realizing that yelling would
accomplish nothing. "It looks like my friend will turn to stone in five or six minutes. If you
manage to lift the spell during that time, I'll do what you're asking me to do: block this
palant r`s transmission and throw it into Orodruin. How to do it is your problem, but if you
can't, I'll do what I intended to do, although, to be honest, you've almost convinced me
otherwise. Well?"
"Be reasonable, Haladdin! Would you destroy a whole World -- two Worlds, actually -- to
save one man? It won't even save him when he dies later together with the World..."
"I don't give a shit about your worlds, understand?! For the last time -- will you try or not?"
"I can only repeat what I've said before to those idiots of the White Council: `What you are
about to do is worse than a crime. It is a mistake.'"
"Oh yeah? Then I'm dropping my ball into the crater! Run like hell if you can! You can
figure yourself how many seconds you've got -- I've never been good at figuring in my
head..."
***
Wolverine, lieutenant of the Secret Guard, was also facing a difficult choice at about the
same time.
He had already reached the shores of the Anduin and had a good chance of getting to the
boat that would save him when the Elves dogging his heels managed to chase him onto a
kurum -- a boulder-strewn slope that the real wolverines favor for their lairs. Trying to take
a shortcut, the lieutenant ran straight across the kurum, leaping from boulder to boulder. It is
most important to maintain one's momentum and never stop when moving like that -- jump
and bounce, jump and bounce. This is not too difficult in dry weather, but now, after several
days of rain, the lichens covering every boulder with black and orange spots were water-
logged, and every spot was mortally dangerous.
Wolverine had barely made it through a half of the slope when he realized that the pursuers
were closer than he thought: arrows began falling around him. Those arrows arrived on high
trajectories at the very end of their range, but the lieutenant knew too much of the Elves'
skill -- the best archers in Middle Earth -- not to steal a glance backwards. After another leap
he pushed off a large stone with his left foot while turning to the left -- and that was when
the soggy lichen, slippery as the proverbial banana peel, gave way under his Mordorian boot
(I knew this hard-soled footwear would fail me!) and Wolverine was thrown to the right into
a narrowing crevice. His breaking fingernails left rips across the lichen spots on the boulder,
but could not hold him. A stupid thought flitted across the lieutenant's mind -- "wish I were
a real wolverine" -- right before his right ankle, stuck in the crevice like in a steel trap,
cracked and shot a bolt of pain through his spine, knocking him out.
...Strangely, his unconsciousness had lasted a very short time. Wolverine managed to prop
himself up in the crevice so as to rest his weight on the uninjured leg. Now he could move
his backpack over his head and in front of him. The sheaf of Dol Guldur papers had a bottle
of fire jelly attached to it (praise Grizzly for thinking of everything!), so all he had to do now
was strike a flint on the ignition charge -- an air-tight porcelain bottle filled with the light
fraction of naphtha. Only after untying the strap of the backpack and locating the flint in his
pocket did he think to look around, leaning back (it was impossible to turn around) just in
time to see column-like figures in gray-green cloaks kind of slowly falling on him from the
pale noon sky. With mere meters separating him from the pursing Elves, the lieutenant
knew with certainty that of the two duties left to him in this life -- setting off the ignition
charge and chewing the green pill of salvation -- he only had time to perform one, and an
officer of Task Force F ?anor should know which one took priority... So it was that the last
sight Wolverine saw before a blow to the head knocked him out was that of the bluish
naphtha flame licking the slightly frayed saltpeter-soaked fire cord.
He came to in a large clearing with a good view of the valley of the Great River. His hands
were tied behind his back, his Mordorian uniform was all singed tatters, and the entire left
side of his body was one large burn -- the device worked, praise Aul ! Belatedly he saw an
Elf squatting to the left of him, on the side of the eye almost covered with dried lymph. The
Elf was disgustedly wiping his flask with a rag -- apparently, he had just been pouring Elvish
wine down the prisoner's throat.
"You awake?" the Elf inquired in a melodious voice.
"Mordor and the Eye!" Wolverine responded automatically (imagine dying as an Orc! Well,
them's the breaks...)
"Quit pretending, dear ally!" The Firstborn was smiling, but his eyes burned with such
hatred that his vertical cat's pupils narrowed into tiny slits. "You are going to tell us
everything about those strange games of His Majesty Elessar Elfstone, aren't you, beastie?
There shouldn't be any secrets between allies."
"Mordor... and... the Eye..." The lieutenant's voice was still even, although Manwe only
knew the effort it took: the Elf had casually dropped his hand to the prisoner's broken ankle
and...
"Sir Engold, look! What's that?!"
At the cry of his comrades the Elf turned around and stared, frozen, at something resembling
a colossal dandelion swiftly grow to the sky beyond the Anduin, right where Caras
Galadhon ought to be -- a thin blinding-white stalk crowned with a bright-red bulbous
`flower.' Almighty Eru, if this thing is indeed in Galadhon, how huge must it be? What
Galadhon? There's probably not even ashes left there... A strangled cry made him turn
back: "Sir Engold, the prisoner! What's happening to him?.."
Fast as he turned back, it was all over before he could see it happen. The prisoner was dead
and no physician was necessary to confirm that. In a few moments, right under the gaze of
the astonished Elves, the man had turned into a skeleton covered here and there in remnants
of mummified skin. The brown-yellow skull, its eye sockets filled with sand, grinned at
Engold from between shrunken blackened lips, as if mockingly inviting him to ask his
questions -- immerse me in the truth potion, perhaps that will help?
And in the palace in Minas Tirith Aragorn watched in astonishment the subtle changes
taking place in the face of Arwen, seated across from him. Nothing seemed to change,
really, but he felt with absolute certainty that something important, perhaps the most
important, was going, slipping away like a blissful morning dream slips from memory...
some magical incompleteness of her features, which became completely human. When this
metamorphosis was over in a few moments, he reached a verdict summing up that period of
his life: a beautiful woman, no question about it. Very beautiful, even. But that's all.
None of his subjects saw that, nor would they have ascribed any importance to it had they
seen it. What they did dutifully reflect in the chronicles of that day was another event of that
noon: when the Mirror was destroyed in L rien, the other six palant ri remaining in Middle
Earth detonated, too, and a monstrous geyser almost half a mile high shot up from the
Anduin-receiving Bay of Belfalas. The geyser spawned a forty-foot tsunami that wiped out
several fishing villages together with their inhabitants; it is doubtful that anyone recognized
that those unfortunates, too, were victims of the War of the Ring.
The most surprising thing is that despite his powers of observation and insight His Majesty
Elessar Elfstone had not connected those two events that happened at noon of August the
first of the Year 3019 of the Third Age and in a sense became its final moment, either. For
sure, no one after him had ever connected them, having had no opportunity to do so.
***
"Bend the arm, quick!" Haladdin ordered, tightening the tourniquet above Tzerlag's left
elbow. "Keep the rag pressed there, lest you bleed out."
The sergeant's hand `unfroze' the moment the volcano swallowed the palant r, so now his
blood gushed like it always does when a man loses a couple of fingers. They had no means
to stop the bleeding other than the tourniquet: it turned out that the blood-clotting medicines
from the Elvish medkit, including the legendary mandrake root (which reputedly could even
patch a severed artery), have stopped working entirely. Who would have thought that this
was magic, too?
"Listen... so we won, right?"
"Yes, dammit! If it can be called victory..."
"I don't understand, Field Medic, sir..." it seemed that the sergeant's lips, gray with blood
loss, had trouble obeying him. "What does `if it can be called victory' mean?"
Don't you dare, Haladdin told himself. That had been my decision; I have no right to
burden anyone else with it, not even Tzerlag, not even a tiny bit. He should not even suspect
what he had just witnessed and indirectly caused, for his own good. Let all this remain our
Dagor-Dagorlad to him -- a victorious Dagor-Dagorlad...
"What I mean is... The thing is, not a soul in Middle Earth will believe in our victory. No
victory parades, you know? Mark my words: the Elves and the Men from beyond the
Anduin will find a way to paint themselves as the victors, anyway."
The Orocuen nodded and held still for a moment, as if listening to the slowly subsiding
growl of the Fire Mountain. "Yeah. That's how it's gonna be, no doubt. But what do we
care?"
Epilogue
"What will History say?"
"History, sir, will lie -- as always."
Bernard Show
Have the courage to dream and lie.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Our narrative is based entirely on Tzerlag's tales, however incomplete, that are preserved by
his clan as an oral tradition. It should be stressed that we have no documents that might
attest to its veracity. The one who might have been expected to leave the most detailed
account -- Haladdin -- had not recorded even a word on the subject; the other participants in
the hunt for Galadriel's Mirror -- Tangorn and Kumai -- remained silent for obvious reasons.
Therefore, whoever would like to declare the whole thing to be the old-age ravings of an Orc
who wanted to replay the finale of the War of the Ring is free to do so with clear conscience.
After all, that's what memoirs are for: to let veterans recast their losses as victories after the
fact.
On the other hand, those who consider this story to be, if not a true, then at least a plausible
version of history, might be interested in certain events outside its immediate time frame.
Tzerlag related that he had accompanied Haladdin from Orodruin to Ithilien; the doctor
seemed very ill and didn't say ten words in a row throughout the journey. On one of their
stops the sergeant fell in a sleep so deep that he woke up only by next evening, nauseous and
with a monster headache. Instead of his comrade he found the mithril coat by his side, with
a farewell letter wrapped in it. Haladdin wrote that Middle Earth was now free from the
Elvish menace and that in his capacity as the commanding officer of the operation he
thanked the sergeant for excellent service and awarded him the precious armor. As for the
doctor himself, regretfully he `had paid such a price for victory as to see no place for himself
among people.' Those words led the scout to fear the worst, but the hunch did not pan out:
judging by his tracks, Haladdin had simply reached the Ithilien highway and took it to points
south.
Interestingly, a few years ago a certain light-minded doctoral student at the Umbar
University's Medieval History Department took this legend at face value and invested the
effort to comb the account books of several Eastern monasteries, which have been keeping
records for the last fifteen hundred years with an unnatural thoroughness. What do you
think -- the whelp did unearth a very curious coincidence: in January 3020 (by the then
current calendar) an Umbarian-looking monk did join the Gurwan Aren cave monastery in
the mountains of North Vendotenia. This monk took an oath of silence and donated an
inoceramium ring to the monastery. This led the student to make (quoting the minutes of the
departmental meeting) "a hasty, unfounded, and totally non-scientific claim of identity of
the said monk with the legendary Haladdin." Naturally, the doctoral committee
administered a proper tongue-lashing to the wannabe ghost-hunter, so that the young man
forswore departures from his approved dissertation topic and has been dutifully dusting clay
fragments from the garbage piles of Khand's Seventh Dynasty ever since.
As for the real Haladdin, his name can be found in any university course on history of
science -- as an example of the dangers of sudden leaps forward -- rather than physiology, his
life's work. His brilliant studies of nerve tissue function have been so far ahead of his time
as to fall out of scientific context and be forgotten. Only three centuries later did the medics
of the Ithilien School come across his works while searching for ancient antidotes. It
became clear then that Haladdin had beaten the famous Vespuno by more than a hundred
years; not only did he prove experimentally the electric nature of axon stimulation, but he
also predicted the existence of neurotransmitters, and even modeled how they should work.
Unfortunately, only historians are interested in the `who was there first' kind of things; the
scientific community has no use for this information. In any event Haladdin's last known
work is dated year 3016 of the Third Age and the official version is that he perished during
the War of the Ring.
Let's go back to Tzerlag, whose historicity is beyond doubt. As is known, the occupation of
Mordor ended (suddenly and inexplicably) by the winter of 3020, and life there started
slowly getting back to normal. The population of the cities had suffered tremendous losses
(strictly speaking, the Mordorian civilization had not fully recovered since then), but the
nomads have mostly avoided those tribulations. The sergeant used to say that a real man
whose hands grow from the right place (rather than out of his butt) will come out on top
whatever the situation, and proved this maxim with his entire life. After returning to his
home grounds, he ended up the founder of a large and powerful clan, which had preserved
the tale of his journeys in its oral tradition, as is customary with nomadic peoples.
Incidentally, the fate of the other sergeant, Runcorn, was almost the same as Tzerlag's, aside
from the fact that the ex-ranger lived on the other side of the Mountains of Shadow in the
valley of the Otter Creek, rather than on the Morgai plateau. The hamlet he built under a
strange name Lianica had grown into a regular village in only five years. When his little son
found the first gold nugget in Ithilien in the creek's gravel bed, the neighbors only shrugged:
money always attracts money. Had he and the Orocuen met in their old age, undoubtedly
they would have put their Mirkwood debates about the comparative advantages of dark beer
and kumiss to a practical test, but it was not to be.
Tzerlag had decided to return the mithril coat to Haladdin's girl together with the tale of his
vanished friend's heroic achievement. But Kumai had perished, and the scout himself knew
nothing of the girl beside the name Sonya (very common among Trolls) and vague
knowledge of her participation in the Resistance, so all his efforts to locate her failed. The
despairing Orocuen then decided that he and his clan were the keepers rather than the
owners of the artifact (the nomads' punctiliousness in those matters is truly without limit).
The sergeant's great-great-grandson ended up turning it over (together with the associated
headaches) to the N rnen History Museum, where anyone can see it today together with the
other relics of the mysterious Mordorian civilization. At this point the apologist for the
legend might say: "Aha! Isn't the coat of mail proof enough for you?" The grave and
absolutely correct answer would be that the coat proves nothing even within Tzerlag's
narrative, since Haladdin had obtained it before receiving the nazg l's ring.
By the way, concerning mithril... There is a total of four such coats of mail in the museums
of Arda, but the technology of their manufacture remains a mystery. If you want your
metallurgist friend to throw something heavy at your head, ask him about this alloy. It's
been analyzed to death: 86% silver, 12% nickel, plus trace amounts of nine rare metals from
vanadium to niobium; they can measure these proportions to the ninth digit after the
decimal, X-ray its structure, and do a myriad other things, except reproduce it. Some say
(not without a trace of mockery) that the old masters would supposedly forever invest a
fraction of their souls in each batch of mithril, and since today there are no souls, but only
the `objective reality perceived by our senses,' by definition we have no chance to obtain
real mithril.
The most recent attempt at a solution had been undertaken by the smart guys at the Arnor
Center for High Technologies with a special grant from Angmar Aerospace. It all came to
naught: the grantor was presented with a plate of some alloy two millimeters thick (86.12%
silver, 11.96% nickel, and so forth) and told that this was real mithril and everything else
was just legends. As usual, the smart guys then asked for another grant to study this creation
of theirs. Without blinking an eye the boss of the rocket men produced a loaded museum
crossbow from under his executive desk, aimed it at the project leader and suggested that he
protect himself with his plate -- if it holds, you'll get your money, if it doesn't, you won't
need it. Unsurprisingly, that was the end of the project. I have no idea whether this actually
happened, but those who know the CEO of Angmar Aerospace well insist that the joke
would be quite in his taste -- not for naught does he trace his lineage from the Witch-king.
The story of inoceramium that supposedly served to make the rings of the Nazg l is much
simpler, and the reason people don't often see it is obvious. This metal of the platinum
group is not just extremely rare in Arda's crust (its clark is 4 x 108; compare gold at 5 x 1077
or iridium at 1 x 107) -- unlike the other platinoids it is never found scattered, but only in
large nuggets. You can figure out the probability of finding one such yourself. Actually,
not too long ago a nugget weighing a fantastic 87 ounces had been found in Kigvali mines in
South Harad; the headline in the local paper was Find of the Century -- Six Pounds of
Inoceramium Would Make Enough Rings for a Platoon of Nazg l. This metal has absolutely
no unusual characteristics aside from its density (higher than osmium).
But enough about metals.
Alviss never married. She dwelt in self-imposed isolation in her Jasper Street mansion,
dedicating her life to raising the son she had at the appropriate time after those events. This
boy grew up to be none other than Commodore Amengo -- the one whose voyages are
universally considered to have ushered in the era of great discoveries. The Commodore had
left behind the maps of the shore of a new continent that was to bear his name, wonderful (in
a literary sense) travel notes, and a long string of broken hearts -- none of which brought him
any family happiness. Aside from the great western continent (which was long believed to
be the legendary Far West, with resultant attempts to discern Elvish features in its
aborigines), Amengo's list of discoveries includes a small tropical archipelago which he had
deservedly named Paradise. The name had been replaced later by the Holy Church (the
local girls looked like the living, breathing houranies as portrayed by the godawful
Hakimian heresy), but the two biggest islands of the archipelago, whose shapes closely
resemble the yin-yang symbol, have managed to keep the names given them by the
discoverer: Alviss and Tangorn.
By my lights the famous seafarer had immortalized his parents' names in the best possible
way. Nevertheless, the love story of the Umbarian courtesan and the Gondorian aristocrat
had been a favorite topic of writers ever since. For some reason these people either turn the
protagonists into disembodied romantic ghosts or reduce everything to primitive erotica.
Alas, the recent Amengian screen version -- The Spy and The Whore -- was no exception: it
was rightfully rated XXX in Gondorian theaters and banned outright in puritanical Angmar.
The movie's artistic merits are scant, but it's totally politically correct: Alviss is black
(excuse me -- Harado-Amengian) and the relationship between Tangorn and Grager has
distinct gay overtones. The critics predicted as one man that the judges of the Silver
Harbors Film Festival would protect themselves from the charges of racism, sexism, and
other horrible "isms" by throwing every conceivable award at it, which is exactly what
happened. In any event, the inimitable Gunun-Tua's Golden Elanor for Best Actress was
well-deserved.
Almandin and Jacuzzi were hanged in the courtyard of the Ar-Horan prison on one of the
exhaustingly hot August nights of 3019; Flag Captain Makarioni and seven other officers
that had participated in `Admiral Carnero's mutiny' were executed along with them. This
was the post factum description of Operation Sirocco, during which the admiral first
destroyed the entire Gondorian invasion fleet right at the piers in a pre-emptive strike, and
then landed a raiding party which burned Pelargir shipyards to the ground. To save face,
Aragorn had to sign the Dol Amroth Compact. By its terms Umbar did acknowledge itself "an
inseparable part of the Reunited Kingdom," but got itself permanent free city status in
return. Its Senate was renamed to `magistrate' and its army to `garrison;' Special Envoy
Alkabir, who represented the Republic, even managed to wangle a special provision banning
His Majesty's Secret Guard from operating in its territory. To the mutual satisfaction of the
king of Gondor and Umbarian senators, Admiral Carnero's raid was declared to have been a
banal pirate foray, and its participants deserters and traitors who had abandoned their oath
and military honor.
Of course, the people viewed Carnero's co-conspirators (the admiral avoided court-martial
by getting himself killed at Pelargir) as heroes who had saved their Motherland from a
foreign invasion, but the fact remained that they had gone against orders. The Republic's
Prosecutor General Almaran had a simple solution to this ethical dilemma: "Winners are
always right, you say? Like hell! Either law exists and is the same for everybody, or there's
no law at all." The pathos of his prosecutor's speech (quoted in whole or in part in every
modern law textbook) can be summed up exhaustively by its concluding statement: "Let the
world perish but justice be done!" Be that as it may, the executed officials of the Umbarian
secret service should have known that motherland's gratitude usually takes strange forms...
Sonya never found out about Haladdin's mission (as we already know, this had been his
special concern) and remained certain that he and Kumai had perished at the Field of
Pelennor. But time is merciful, so once those wounds had healed she fulfilled her life's
destiny by becoming a loving wife and wonderful mother, having married a worthy man
whose name is absolutely irrelevant to our story.
In my opinion, royal personages are of much lesser interest, since their fates are well-known.
For those too lazy to pick up a book or at least review their sixth-grade history textbook, let
me remind you that Aragorn's reign was one of the most magnificent in Middle Earth
history and is one of the watershed events separating the Middle Ages (the Third Age) from
modernity. The usurper did not try to win the love of the Gondorian aristocracy (such a
project would have been dead on arrival), instead betting correctly on the third estate, which
cared for things like tax rates and safety of trade routes, rather than dynastic rights and other
such phantoms. Since His Majesty had effectively burned all bridges with the aristocracy,
paradoxically this gave him freedom to implement radical agrarian reform, drastically
curtailing the rights of landlords in favor of free farmers. These factors were the basis for
the famous `Gondorian economic miracle' and the colonial expansion that followed, while
the representative legislative bodies Aragorn had created to counterweight the aristocracy
have survived to our day almost unchanged, earning the Reunited Kingdom its well-
deserved title of Middle Earth's oldest democracy.
It is common knowledge that the king advanced and supported science, craftsmanship, and
sea-faring ventures, appointed talented men to important state positions without regard to
their lineage, and was sincerely loved by his subjects. The only dark stain on Elessar
Elfstone's reputation is the early period of his reign, when his Secret Guard (admittedly a
really scary outfit) had to protect the throne from the feudal lords with an iron hand;
actually, most of today's experts believe that the scale of terror had been greatly magnified
by the nobility's historians. Aragorn's famously beautiful wife Arwen (Elven-born,
according to legend) played no role in matters of state and only imparted a certain
mysterious luster to his court. They had no children, so the Elfstone dynasty ended with its
founder, with the throne reverting to the Prince of Ithilien -- in other words, things went back
to the way they were.
It is rather hard to analyze the reign of the first Princes of Ithilien, Faramir and E:owyn, in
political or economical terms -- it appears that they had neither politics nor economics over
there, but only a never-ending romantic ballad. Nearly all the contemporary poets and
painters must have contributed to the creation of the captivating image of the Fairy of the
Ithilien Woods (weird, isn't it -- Ithilien, the industrial heart of Middle Earth, had forests
once!), since Faramir's modest court had become a sort of a holy shrine to them, and not
making a pilgrimage there was the height of bad taste. But even correcting for the
unavoidable idealization, one has to admit that E:owyn must have been an exceptionally pure
soul.
Thanks to that army of artists we have several portraits of Prince Faramir; the best one I
know of is reproduced in a monograph entitled Philosophical Agnosticism and its Early
Adepts recently printed by the Amon S l Tower Publishers in Annuminas. In any case none
of those portraits have anything in common with the chiseled profile gracing the cockades
on the mustard-colored berets worn by the commandos of the Ithilien Paratrooper Regiment.
By the way, the famous `mongooses' -- a special anti-terrorist unit whose soldiers were on
every TV screen in Arda recently when they brilliantly freed the passengers of a
Vendotenian airliner captured in Minas Tirith airport by the Hannani fanatics from the
Northern Mingad Liberation Front -- are part of that regiment, as well.
Faramir had committed exactly one act of foreign policy during his entire reign -- he
approved Baron Grager's request to send him south of the river Harnen to conduct a series
of intelligence and sabotage operations: "...by all signs the fate of Middle Earth will be
decided there, in Near Harad." Strangely, the subsequent fate of Grager of Aran (often
called, not without justification, the savior of Western civilization) remains the stuff of
unverified legends and anecdotes. The only thing that is known is the end result of his
efforts -- the massive rebellion of nomad Aranians against their Haradi masters, which had
led, domino-fashion, to the fall of the entire ominous Harad Empire and its fracturing into a
non-threatening bunch of warring tribes. Nobody knows how this adventurous intellectual
had earned his iron-clad authority among the fierce savages of the Harnen savannah. The
fairy tale of him accidentally buying a son of an Aranian chieftain at the Khand slave market
appears entirely unreliable; the idea that his way to power went through chief priestess
Svantatra's bed is cute and romantic, but people familiar with the realities of the South can
only laugh at it. Even the manner of the baron's death is uncertain: either he perished in a
lion hunt, or was killed accidentally while mediating a conflict over summer watering-hole
rights between two small Aranian clans.
But the fate of E:omer is so incredible that some authors are still trying to prove that he was a
legend rather than a real person. Having ascended to the throne of the Mark of Rohan after
the Mordorian campaign, he had discovered -- to his great surprise and displeasure -- that
there was no one left to fight any more, at least in the near Middle Earth. For some time the
famed warrior had tried to amuse himself with tournaments, hunts, and amorous adventures,
but quickly tired of it all and fell into depression. (Historical veracity impels me to admit
that on the battlefields of love this chevalier sans per et sans r proche was characterized by
a total lack of taste combined with a fantastic appetite, so much so that Edoras wags
suggested that their monarch's motto should be `one for all.') That was when the
involuntarily idle monarch remembered a certain marvelous eastern faith that had led him to
victory on the Field of Pelennor. At first E:omer wanted to make Hakimianism the state
religion of Rohan, but then he came up with a more interesting plan.
At that time the Khand Caliphate was in the middle of an anemic religious war between two
sects of Hakimians. It is still uncertain how E:omer decided which one of those was the one
true faith. Personally, I suspect that he flipped a coin -- the actual dogmatic differences were
and are a fertile field for armies of theologians. Be that as it may, he converted his entire
Royal Guard, idle and ready to fight anyone at all, to that sect (legend has it that one of
E:omer's warriors, when asked how he felt on the path of True Faith, responded: "Not bad,
Tulkas be praised -- my boots aren't leaking") and went South. The king left his cousin-
twice-removed as regent in Edoras; sure thing, this plunged the country into dynastic
struggles that lasted almost a century and culminated in the War of Nine Castles, which
wiped out the entire knighthood of Rohan.
To the total astonishment of his companions, once in Khand E:omer did renounce his
previous life, gave all his possessions but the sword to the poor, and joined the order of
Hannanites (warrior dervishes). Utilizing his commander's talent in the service of his
chosen sect, he crushed the opposition in three decisive battles, ending the twenty-six-year
`holy war' in only six months; the `good' Hakimians dubbed him The Prophet's Sword,
while the `schismatics' called him God's Wrath. At the end of the third battle, when the
heretics' defeat was all but assured, E:omer was killed by a missile from an enemy catapult --
truly the best death a genuine commander may wish for. The Hakimians promptly
canonized him as a holy martyr, so he should have no problems obtaining the
companionship of houranies.
This looks like a good place to stop... In conclusion, I would like to stress that I have filled
the gaps in Tzerlag's story at my own discretion. The old soldier bears no responsibility for
my inventions, especially since many will now passionately charge the storyteller -- who
else? -- with deviating from the mainstream version of the events of the end of the Third
Age. One has to note that the public's knowledge of these events is mostly derived from the
adapted Western epos, The Lord of the Rings, at best, and often from the Sword of Isildur
TV series and the Galleries of Moria first-person shooter game.
I have to sonorously remind those critics that The L