The Last Ringbearer (13 page)

“The Nazgúl can actually assume any appearance they want, but back then we used our real look, just like now. Take yourself – you’re an educated man, and still you paled a little, so how much more so the local yokels? To make a long story short, we dressed to impress and paraded in a few local towns, just about shouting from the rooftops: ‘Where’s the keeper of the Ring of Power? Get him over here!’ It’s a good thing they don’t even have police over there, let alone a counter-intelligence service; the professionals would’ve realized immediately that this was not how you catch someone, not at all! Well, those village simpletons – the Ring-keeper and his friends – took it all for real, so we herded them East slowly, just scaring them once in a while so they wouldn’t hang around the taverns too much. In the meantime, our people led Gondorian Prince Boromir to them. The whole operation was for his sake, really: that guy was ready to make glue from his father’s bones to get the Ring of Power. So when the prince joined the team together with a bunch of other people, we thought it all set – no more need for us to shadow that gang and make them nervous. Now our ring will sail clear to Minas Tirith with no problems … We tasked a company of Orocuens to escort the Ring and forgot all about it – and paid for that. Some time later our people watching the Anduin spotted a funeral boat, checked it – surprise! Boromir! Apparently they had some sort of a brawl in the company, and someone bested him. No one has seen the Ring since then, nor has anyone looked; whatever for?

“So, to sum it up, we’ve screwed this one up royally, no question, I’m still ashamed to remember it … So, doctor, have you been amused by this morality tale? Are you even listening?”

“My sincere apologies, Sharya-Rana!” Haladdin finally tore his fixed gaze from the orange embers and suddenly smiled. “This story gave me an idea somehow. I may have found a solution to this puzzle … or at least an approach to a solution. Tell me – by the rules of this game, may I share it with you, or would it be a hint?”

CHAPTER 18

N 
o,” Sharya-Rana said after some thought. “I mean – no, it won’t be a hint. Tell me your solution.”

“Please tell me about the
palantíri
first, all right?”

“As you please. Those, too, are magical crystals; with your limitations in this area they can only interest you as a means of communication. Anything surrounding one crystal can be transmitted to another – images, sounds, smells. Let me stress: it is the phenomenon itself that gets transmitted, rather than information about it. How this happens is rather difficult to understand, nor do you need to. Thoughts and feelings don’t get transmitted, of course, that’s a fairy tale. A
palantír
can work in sending, receiving, or two-way mode; in principle, it is possible to set up contact between more than two crystals, but that is very complicated.”

“What do they look like?”

“A ball of smoky crystal, about the size of a child’s head.”

“So they’re portable, at least, that’s a big plus. Then here’s the idea. The seven palantíri and the Mirror are a complementary pair and can’t exist without each other, right? So instead of the Mirror we can drop the
palantíri
into Orodruin, with the same result! You will tell me where to look for them; would that be legal?”

“Hmm … Ingenious! Unfortunately, this is technically impossible, at least as far as I can see. The thing is, you’d need all seven to succeed, and some
palantíri
are quite out of reach. We have only one in Mordor, that one’s not a problem. I surmise that Aragorn grabbed Denethor’s
palantír
, and Gandalf has Saruman’s. Those are at least within theoretical reach, so that’s three. But then there’s the
palantír
of the Western Elves; their ruler Círdan keeps it in the tower of Elostirion in Emyn Beraid – how is that any better than Lórien, it’s only further away? Finally, there is the
palantír
of Osgiliath, tossed into Anduin ages ago – who knows where it is by now? – and the two of Arnor, from Annúminas and the tower of Amon Súl; those are in a sunken ship at the bottom of the Bay of Forochel. I can give you exact coordinates if you wish, but I really don’t see how that will help you.”

Haladdin felt the tips of his ears burn. Impudent whelp – to think that you could solve in three minutes a puzzle that the greatest mathematician of all time must have been pondering for who knows how many years … He was incredibly surprised to hear Sharya-Rana say:

“Great job, Haladdin. Truly, only now am I really at peace. This means that you have actually started working on this puzzle, and nothing will stop you now.”

“Yes, you’ve suckered me in quite deftly, no question,” he grumbled. “By the way, where is our
palantír
, of Mordor? Just in case.”

“Try guessing. Tzerlag must’ve taught you a few things over the last month, no?”

“Some guess! At least tell me when it was hidden?”

“Right after the Battle of Cormallen, when it became clear that Mordor would fall.”

“Aha …” He thought for a couple of minutes. “So. To begin with, where it certainly can’t be is any of your hideouts, guerilla bases, and so forth. Should I explain?”

“Not to me. Next?”

“No way you’d hide it in Barad-dúr, for all of its wonderful hiding places, because of the coming siege and fires.”

“That’s logical.”

“To move it abroad is dicey. First, it was precisely at that time, right after Cormallen, that the roads were at their riskiest; second, who knows what the local agents will do after the defeat? Although it would be tempting to hide it in Minas Tirith, for example!”

“Well … All right. Accepted.”

“Caves, abandoned mines, old wells are out: there are a lot more accidental observers around such places than is commonly known. For the same reason, can’t sink it under a buoy in some pretty cove of the Núrnen – fishermen are curious folks.”

“Right again.”

“In other words, I would bury it in some faraway, unpopulated, and undistinguished location, in the mountains or in the desert, noting the landmarks really well. Of course, this carries its own risk – in a few years the boulder under which it’s been hidden might wind up in the river together with the entire bank after a landslide … Actually, wait – there’s a better alternative! Abandoned ruins with real hiding places, far from human habitation, where a normal person would never go, like Minas Morgul or Dol Guldur.”

“Yeah …” drawled the nazgúl, “you’re real sharp. Dol Guldur it is. I took it there myself. Used a glider and walked back, as no one else was there to operate the catapult. The
palantír
is in ‘receive’ mode and so is invisible to the other crystals; it’s in the hiding place behind a six-sided stone in the rear wall of the fireplace in the Great Hall. It’s in a pouch made of sackcloth woven with silver, so it can be handled safely. The handles opening the hiding place appear when two stones are pushed simultaneously: a rhombic one next to it and the lower left one in the fireplace’s arch, which can only be reached with one’s foot. Remember this, I won’t repeat it.”

“Could I use this
palantír
?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, you said that it’s a magical crystal and I’m not supposed to use any magic.”

“The crystal is magical,” Sharya-Rana explained patiently, “but the communication is not. For example, if you use a
palantír
as a sinker, the fish you catch will not be magical.”

“Then can you tell me how to use one?”

“Who are you going to contact – Gandalf? Actually, that’s your business … It’s not complicated, really. Are you familiar with optics?”

“Yes, from a university course.”

“Then I’d better keep it simple. There are two constantly glowing orange sparks within a
palantír
. The line connecting them coincides with the main optical axis of the crystal …”

Haladdin listened to the explanation quietly, marveling at how the nazgúl was neatly slotting all that complex and voluminous information into his memory. Then, weirder things began. The tempo of Sharya-Rana’s explanations kept increasing (or, perhaps, time was slowing – he would not have been surprised by that now), and although at any given moment Haladdin’s brain perceived only one phrase – a glyph completely out of any context – he was absolutely certain that whenever necessary, all this information about guerillas in the Mountains of Shadow, palace intrigues in Minas Tirith, topography of Lórien, passwords to contact Mordor’s resident spies in all the capitals of Middle Earth, and all the rest, would immediately surface in his memory. And when suddenly it was over and silence, thick as if it was congealed with the morning chill, filled the camp, his first thought was that he had to immediately find some poison in Eloar’s medkit and always have it on him. Who knows what might happen – he now knows so much that he must never be captured alive.

“Haladdin!” Sharya-Rana called; his voice was unusually quiet and halting, as if the nazgúl was catching his breath after a long climb. “Come here, please …”

He’s in a really bad way, Haladdin recognized belatedly, how could I not have seen it myself, selfish bastard … what’s wrong with him? Looks like heart trouble. Somehow, the idea of heart trouble in a ghost did not seem ridiculous to him either then or in the next moment, when he realized clearly: this is it! He had seen too many dying men over the last few years not to be sure. The head of the sitting nazgúl drooped listlessly, and he touched the shoulder of the man now kneeling in front of him.

“Did you understand everything I’ve told you?” Haladdin could only nod; something caught in his throat.

“I have nothing more to give you. Forgive me. Only the ring …”

“Is this because of me? Because you … for me …”

“Nothing is free, Haladdin. Wait; let me lean on you … like that … The time was almost up, but I made it. I did. The rest is not important. It’s you who will walk this path now …”

Sharya-Rana was silent for a while, gathering strength. Then he spoke again, and his voice was almost as even as before:

“I will now remove the spell from my ring, and … I will be no more. You will take it; it will empower you to act in the name of the Order of the Nazgúl when necessary. Our rings are cast from inoceramium, the most rare noble metal, a third again as heavy as gold, can’t confuse it with anything else. People fear those rings, with good reason; yours will be clean, free of all magic, but you’ll be the only one to know that. Will you be afraid?”

“No. I remember it well:
nothing can happen to a person who is not afraid
. Is this really ancient magic?”

“None more ancient.”

Suddenly he understood that Sharya-Rana was trying to smile but could not: the darkness under his cowl, alive and flowing like a spring in the night not so long ago, now resembled a brick of coal dust.

“Farewell, Haladdin, and remember: you have everything you need to win. Repeat it as an incantation and don’t be afraid of anything. Now, take this … and turn away.”

“Farewell, Sharya-Rana. Don’t worry, everything will be as it should be.”

He carefully accepted a heavy dim ring from the nazgúl’s hand and stepped away obediently, so he did not see the wizard slowly push back his cowl. Only when he heard behind him a moan filled with such anguish that his heart nearly stopped (so that’s what “all the World’s pain, all the World’s fear, all the World’s despair” means!), did he turn around – but there was nothing except quickly melting shreds of the black cloak where Sharya-Rana just sat.

“Was that you screaming?”

Haladdin turned around. His comrades, up in flash (the baron was still whirling the wickedly glinting
Slumber-maker
over his head), were gazing at him dourly, awaiting explanations.

CHAPTER 19

P 
erhaps a clandestine operations professional would have done it differently, but he was not one, so he simply told them everything (save burdening Tzerlag with all the ‘parallel worlds’ stuff). He had a visit from a nazgúl (here’s the ring) who told him that he, Haladdin, is the only human able to prevent the Elves from turning all of Middle Earth into their fiefdom and all Men into serfs. To do so, he must destroy Galadriel’s Mirror within a hundred days. He has decided to accept the mission, since there’s no one else to do it. So far, he has no idea how or what to do, but hopefully he’ll come up with something.

Tzerlag looked the ring over warily and of course refused to touch it (the One preserve us!). It was obvious that the doctor had ascended to stratospheric heights in his esteem – as opposed to the Nazgúl, who had descended a similar distance. It’s one thing to send a man to certain death – war is war – but to give a subordinate an impossible task is quite another. A real frontline officer would never do that. To sneak into Lórien, where no man had ever managed to enter, to locate, in a hostile town, what is undoubtedly a well-guarded object, which for good measure can’t be destroyed on site, but has to be lugged a hell of a distance … In any event, he, Sergeant Tzerlag, recon squad leader of the Cirith Ungol Rangers, will not so much as lift a finger until he has a tangible job to do; all these ‘go there – don’t know where’ games are not for him. What? Well, that’s your problem, Field Medic Second Class, sir – you’re the senior officer here.

Tangorn’s statement was short: “I’m twice in your debt, Haladdin. Therefore, if the third sword of Gondor can help your mission in any way, it is at your service. However, the Sergeant is right – infiltrating Lórien directly is suicide, we’ll have no chance. We need some sort of a ruse; as I understand it, that’s your department.”

That was how it came to pass that he went to sleep at the end of that night the leader of a company of three, with the other two (accomplished military professionals, unlike him) looking to him for a tangible task – something, alas, which he did not have for them.

Haladdin spent the next day sitting by the stream; he noticed that his comrades were gently relieving him of all housekeeping duties (“Your job now is to think”), and realized to his acute displeasure that he was incapable of thinking to order. The sergeant had told him a few things about Lórien (the Orocuen had once been in a raid near the edge of the Enchanted Forest): about the paths neatly lined with stakes bearing the skulls of would-be unwanted visitors; about the deadly traps and the roving bands of archers that shower you with poisoned arrows and immediately melt into impassable thicket without a trace; about brooks whose water puts humans to sleep and golden-green birds that gather around any creature that enters the forest and give away its location with their lovely songs. After correlating this information with what Sharya-Rana had told him about the mores and customs of the Forest Elves he saw clearly that the Elvish society was totally closed to outsiders and any attempt to get into the Enchanted Forest without a local guide would end within the first mile.