CHAPTER 11

Mordor, near the Old Núrnen Highway

Night of April 11, 3019

“Where have you studied languages, Baron?”

“Well, I’ve spent over six years in Umbar and Khand, if that’s what you mean, but I’ve started at home. Prince Faramir – we’re childhood friends – has an excellent library, mostly in Eastern languages, of course; could I let it go unused? That’s why I’m here in Mordor, actually – I wanted to sift through the wreckage. Put together a whole bag of books; those guys took it, by the way, together with the Slumber-maker, ” Tangorn nodded towards the double-crested dune, where darkness hid Eloar’s camped company, tracked by Tzerlag.

“Among other things I’ve found a loose page of excellent verse I haven’t seen before:

I swear by near and by far,

I swear by sword and fight that’s fair,

I swear by the morning star

I swear by the evening prayer…

Would you happen to know the author?”

“That’s Saheddin. Strictly speaking, he’s a wizard and an alchemist, not a poet. He publishes verse from time to time, and claims that he’s only a translator of texts created in other worlds. You’re right, the poetry’s great.”

“Damn, but that’s a cute idea! For sure one can describe the World in a myriad ways, but a true poetic text where you can’t change a single letter has to be the most precise and economical one, and universal for that reason alone! If there is anything in common between various worlds, it has to be poetry… and music, of course. Such texts must exist before us, written into the very fabric of what Is and what Could Be by the sound of a seashell, the pain of unrequited love, the smell of spring forest – one must only learn to perceive them… Poets do this intuitively, but what if this Saheddin discovered a formal method for doing so? Why not?”

“Right, something like modern geology to look for ores, rather than unreliable guesses of the diviners. So you, too, think that the World is Text?”

“My world certainly is, but that’s a matter of taste.”

Yeah, the World is Text, thought Haladdin. Wouldn’t it be nice to someday read the paragraph describing how one day I will join two likeable professional killers – what else are they? – to hunt nine subhumans – why, how are those different from all the others? – and will conduct a profound discussion of poetry right before the battle, to control the taste of copper in my mouth and the disgusting feeling of cold fear at the pit of my stomach? Truly, the author of such a text has a great imagination and a great future.

His musings were interrupted when a bright double star above the dune hiding them blinked as if obscured by a bird of the night. So this is it… would that he could have a stiff drink right now… He rose into a crouch and began stuffing his weapons for tonight – a short Orocuen bow of unfamiliar construction and a quiver with six assorted arrows – into his shoulder bag. Meanwhile, Tangorn, still unaccustomed to Tzerlag’s skills, stared in mute amazement at the scout who had silently appeared from nowhere a few steps away.

“Fair sirs, one can hear your whispers from thirty paces off. Were it my boys rather than those lowlifes, you’d already be counting stars on the One’s robes… Whatever, bygones.

Looks like I managed to grab my quarry by the very tail. Way I see it, they are heading for that highway outpost that the Baron had mentioned, and that, I figure, is no more than five or six miles away; we won’t be able to get them there. So here’s the plan…”

Here the sands of the erg bordered the western edge of a large hamada of many a square mile – a silent sea rolling its waves onto a grim stony beach. The largest wave was appropriately right against the shoreline – a huge dune stretching half a mile each way from a fire burning at the middle of its foot. The Elf has chosen his campsite wisely: the forty-foot dune slope in the back and the flat expanse of the hamada in the front; the two lookouts placed twenty yards to the north and the south of the fire along the bottom of the dune fully covered all lines of possible attack. Not much fuel around here, but saxaul burns long and hot, almost like coal; a dozen arm-thick logs from every member of the party will provide enough warmth to last the night.

What if it’s a trap? Haladdin wondered suddenly. Sure, Tzerlag had sniffed out everything around, but aren’t these guys too carefree? Never mind the fire, it’s only visible from the hamada where no one is supposed to be, but the fact that the sentry goes to the fire to add fuel and warm himself a little – that’s total madness, afterwards he can’t see anything in the dark for at least three minutes… It was during one such departure of the southern sentry that they had crept to within twenty paces of his position. The scout had left them there and melted into the dark: he was supposed to go around the camp by the way of the hamada and creep up to the northern sentry. No, he restrained himself; no need to fear your own shadow. It’s just that they’ve grown so unaccustomed to meeting resistance that guarding the camp is a formality to them. Besides, it’s their last night out on patrol, tomorrow it will be baths, drink, and all that… plus a bonus for every Orc ear… I wonder if children’s ears bring the same bounty or are a bit cheaper? Stop it! Stop it right there! He bit his lip, hard, feeling another round of shakes coming on – just like back at Teshgol, when he saw the mutilated corpses for the first time. You have to be absolutely calm, you’ll be shooting soon… yes, like that, relax and meditate… like that…

He was lying flat on the cold sand, minutely examining the sentry’s silhouette. No helmet (and rightly so, can’t hear anything in one of those things), so best aim for the head.

Interesting, huh? – here’s a man standing, looking at the stars, thinking of pleasant (to him) things, not knowing that he’s already dead. Meanwhile the ‘dead’ man looked enviously at his seven buddies by the fire (three to the south, three to the north, one to the west, between the fire and the slope), and then turned away furtively, produced a flask, took a swig, belched and wiped his lips noisily. Great!.. quite sloppy… wonder how his northern counterpart would like that? Suddenly Haladdin’s heart lurched and dropped somewhere into the void: it’s begun! Begun quite a while ago, too, while he, the idiot! had almost missed it, just like the baron, another simpleton… For the northern sentry was already sagging lifelessly to the ground, resting in Tzerlag’s firm embrace. Another moment, and the scout carefully and silently put the Easterling’s body down on the sand and flowed, like a fox into a rabbit hutch, into the circle of light filled with sleeping forms.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Haladdin rose to one knee and drew the bow; in the corner of his right eye he saw the baron, crouching for a lunge. The sentry must have seen some movement in the dark after all, but instead of shouting an alarm he started (imagine such lucky stupidity!) reflexively putting away the illegal flask. The moment of delay was enough for Haladdin to pull the butt of the arrow to his chin and habitually drop the aim an inch below the target – the clearly backlit head of the sentry; twenty paces, a stationary target, even a baby won’t miss. He did not even feel the pain of the bowstring slamming his left arm, for it was immediately followed by the dry and loud, as if into wood, thwack of the arrow hitting home. The Easterling threw up his hands – the unlucky flask still clutched in one – turned on a heel and slowly dropped. The baron sprinted forward and was already past the dead man when a muffled cry sounded from the fire – the sergeant’s scimitar slammed into one of the three men lying to the north of the fire, and the silence immediately shattered into a thousand screaming, howling shards.

Haladdin followed his orders by circling the camp, staying outside the circle of light and yelling in different voices: “Surround them, guys, let no sumbitch escape!” and suchlike.

Instead of scattering, the sleep-addled mercenaries instinctively stayed by the fire. On the southern approach Tangorn hit three of them; one immediately folded, clutching his stomach, and the baron snatched his sword – a wide and, Tulkas be praised, straight one –tossing away the scimitar he had to use initially. The light of the fire fell on his face, and the two remaining Easterlings abruptly dropped their weapons and ran off, screaming: “Gheu, gheu!” (a kind of vampire into which unburied dead are supposed to turn). Surprised, Haladdin was slow to open up on them and apparently missed both – in any event, they vanished into the darkness. In the commotion Tzerlag had wounded another ‘northern’ Easterling and was now calling out from the side: “Hey, Eloar, you coward, where are you?

I came to you to exact the blood-price of Teshgol!”

“I’m here, you spawn of Morgoth,” a scornful voice replied, “Come over, I’ll scratch you behind the ears!” and, addressing his troops now: “No panic, carrion eaters! There’re only three of them, we’ll do them like babies! Kill the slanted-eyes, he’s the chief, and stay away from their archer!”

The Elf appeared beside the fire on the right – tall, golden-haired, clad in light leather armor– his every move and every feature conveying a bewitching impression of sinuous deadly power. He resembled his sword – a thin shimmering ray of bluish starlit ice, the very look of it sent shivers through Haladdin. Tzerlag swung his scimitar with a hoarse cry – a feint to the face and an immediate right arc to the knee; Eloar parried the blow casually, and even a field medic (second class) knew right away that the sergeant has bitten off more than he could chew. The master of stealth and infiltration has met a master of the sword, and the only question now was whether he’d be finished off in two or three thrusts. Tangorn understood it best, so he raced across the fifteen yards separating him from the fight in a flash and laid into the Elf from the left, yelling at the haphazardly retreating scout: “Cover my back, dumbass!”

A professional at work (no matter what profession) is always fascinating to watch, and here there were two pros of the highest caliber. Too bad that all of the few spectators were too busy with their own affairs to admire the show – mostly they were trying to kill each other, which takes a certain amount of concentration. Nevertheless both partners put their all into their work, their tightly choreographed moves fitting precisely in the gaps of the deadly lace being crocheted by their shining blades. Tangorn’s remark about covering his back was quite a propos – the sergeant immediately had to take on the two remaining Easterlings, one of whom was thankfully lame. Haladdin, armed only with a bow, was under strict orders not to get into the melee or even get out of the dark; firing on that tangle of friend and foe would be sheer madness, so he milled around the edges looking for a good target.

In a short while it became obvious that Tangorn was winning. Although his sword was a good three inches shorter, he managed to pink his opponent twice, in the right arm and above the knee. It is known that the Elves do not handle blood loss well, and Eloar’s thrusts were losing their swift precision with every moment; the baron crowded him, calmly waiting for the right moment for the decisive blow, when something inexplicable happened. The Elvish blade suddenly wavered and pointed aside, opening up Eloar’s trunk, and, lightning-fast, the Gondorian’s blade immediately struck him in the lower chest. Haladdin swallowed involuntarily, expecting the blade to come out of the Elf’s back steaming with blood – no mail could have stopped that thrust, let alone leather armor. But Tangorn’s blade bounced off the leather as if it was enchanted, and the Elf, who clearly expected just that, grabbed his sword with both hands and immediately delivered a terrible hacking top-down blow. The baron could neither evade nor parry. He only had time to drop to one knee and catch Eloar’s sword with his – ‘point against point;’ shoddy Eastern steel shattered like glass, and the Elvish blade went into his thigh by almost a third. Tangorn managed to roll away from the next, pinning blow, but the Elf caught up with him in one stride and… And that was when Haladdin, figuring that he had nothing to wait for any more, let fly.

Later he realized that he had performed an impossible feat. The doctor had never been a good shot with a bow, and knew nothing of running shots, especially at a moving target, and especially since Tzerlag and the two Easterlings he was fighting were between him and Eloar. But the fact remains: he had shot without aiming and his arrow hit Eloar right in the eye, so that the Elf died, as the saying goes, “before his body hit the ground.”