CHAPTER 62

“Wake up!” The leather-jacket standing behind Kumai’s chair kicked him habitually in the Achilles’ tendon, the pain immediately jerking the Troll out of a second-long blissful unconsciousness.

“Where did you fly from? What was your mission?” That was the man at the table. They worked together: one asking questions (the same ones over and over, hour after hour), the other kicking the prisoner’s heel from behind whenever he tried either to stand up or to put down his head, leaden with insomnia. The kicks were not even that strong, but always in the same spot, so after a dozen hits the pain turned unbearable, making all his thoughts about the next inevitable kick… Kumai had no illusions: this was not even a warm-up. They simply had not started on him in earnest yet, only depriving him of water and sleep so far.

The engineer forbade himself to consider what might follow once they saw that he was not going to cooperate. He simply decided to hold out for as long as possible to buy some time for Grizzly and Wolverine – maybe those smart guys would figure out the danger and save the Weapon Monastery. He had absent-mindedly left a map with the flight route to the Nimrodel on top of his work table, and his only hope now was that someone would find it and connect it to his disappearance. But how are they to guess that I’m alive and in the Elves’ hands, rather than dead? What can they do even if they guess – evacuate Dol Guldur? Don’t know; revelations and miracles are the One’s job, mine is to hold out and hope…

“Wake up!” This time the guy behind him overdid his blow, knocking Kumai out. When the engineer came to, the leather-jacket at the table had been replaced by the Elf in the silver-black cloak.

“Have you ever been told that you’re an incredibly lucky man, Troll?”

He had lost track of time some unbelievably long time ago; the harsh light bounced off the walls and ate at his watering eyes, and a handful of hot sand had accumulated under each eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut and once again slid into the abyss of sleep… This time he was brought back almost politely, with a shake of the shoulder instead of the usual kick – something must’ve changed in their setup…

“Anyway, to continue: I don’t know who advised you to fly your mission in uniform, but our lawyers – may they burn in the Eternal Fire! – have suddenly decided that this makes you a prisoner of war, rather than a spy. According to your Middle Earth laws a prisoner of war is protected by the Convention: he can’t be forced to break his oath and all that…” The Elf dug through papers on his desk, found the needed spot and put his finger on it with visible disapproval. “As I understand it, they want to trade you for someone, so sign here and go get some sleep.”

Kumai opened his parched lips: “I’m illiterate.”

“An illiterate driver of a mechanical dragon? Not bad… Print your finger, then.”

“Like hell.”

“Whatever, man: I’ll just note that you refused to sign and be done with it. Nobody but your commanders needs these papers anyway, if indeed it does get to an exchange. That’s it, you can go… I mean: take the detainee away! Actually, my apologies, sir – you’re a prisoner of war now, rather than a detainee…”

When the leather-jackets led the engineer into the corridor, the clofoel of Tranquility bit out in his back: “You’re real lucky, Troll. In a couple of hours I was going to deal with you personally… Why did you fly to Lórien, eh?”

He only believed in his victory when he saw lembas on a small table in his cell, and – most importantly – a pitcher of ice-cold water, its clay sides covered with a silvery web that turned into large drops under his fingers. The water had a slightly sweet tang to it, but he did not notice it – a man who had gone without water for several days is simply incapable of doing so.

Sleep came, sweet and light, as it always is after a victory. He smelled home – old wood, couch leather, Dad’s pipe and something else without a name; Mama was quietly puttering in the kitchen, cooking his favorite black beans and surreptitiously wiping away tears; Sonya and Halik – their carefree pre-war selves – were eagerly asking him about his adventures; well, guys, that was really something, you’d never believe…

Smiling happily, he talked in his sleep.

He did not just talk – he answered direct questions posed by someone’s comforting even voice.

…His superiors at Dol Guldur decided that he was dead: “Apparently he has miscalculated his altitude during the most recent flight, which was at night, and hit a tree. Attempts to locate the body and the remains of the glider near the castle have not proved fruitful yet.”

The next day, following his instructions, Grizzly sealed the engineer’s papers, including the flight maps, and sent it all to Féanor headquarters in Minas Tirith without reading.

Lórien, Star Council

July 25, 3019 of the Third Age

Clofoel of Tranquility: As you can see, it is quite possible to do without torture and the brain-busting truth potion.

Lady Galadriel: You’re a real master of your craft, clofoel of Tranquility. What did you find out?

Clofoel of Tranquility: The dragon driver’s name is Kumai, he is an Engineer Second Class. As we suspected, he flew here from Dol Guldur. Judging by his tales, it had been turned into a real snake nest where escaped Mordorian scientists are creating unheard-of weapons under tutelage of their intelligence service. His real mission here was from the Order of the Nazgúl – to drop a sack with some magical item, whose nature is unknown to him, onto the ‘sky’ next to Nimrodel. I believe it is the presence of that item that the esteemed clofoel of Stars and her dancers have felt. My Guards have conducted a thorough search of the valley of the Nimrodel, but found nothing: someone had removed the sack.

Therefore, o radiant Sovereigns – please understand me correctly – therefore, I insist that the esteemed clofoel of the World be removed from this 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 Nazgúl 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 Lórien’s supreme power, as usual: show yourself to people, sign royal proclamations, and all that…