The Last Ringbearer (22 page)

Then again, Faramir had already guessed something once he noticed the sentry lying down the corridor.

“Stand up!” he growled. “Hands on the back of your head! Who are you?”

“I surrender!” The sergeant smiled and handed the prince his ‘enlistment chit.’ “This is a message from Grager, it explains everything. You read while I drag this guy inside, we’ll need his uniform.”

“Cute,” the prince grunted, handing Grager’s paper back to Tzerlag. “So now I count an Orocuen amongst my friends?”

“We’re not friends at all, Prince,” the other objected calmly, “we’re allies. Baron Tangorn …”

“What?! He’s alive?”

“Yes. We had saved him back in Mordor. By the way, it was he who insisted that I go rescue you. Anyhow, the Baron asked that you take the
palantír
when we leave the fort, as we’re gonna leave it now.”

“What the hell do they need it for?” The prince was surprised, but no more than that. He had apparently yielded the initiative to the Ithilienians (in the person of the Orocuen sergeant) and switched to ‘follow the leader’ mode. He only nodded questioningly towards the Dúnadan whose jacket Tzerlag had already liberated.

“Yep, he’s alive,” the Orocuen confirmed, “just a little sleepy. The other one, down the corridor, is also alive. We abide by your ‘no bloodshed’ order religiously.” The prince only shook his head: looks like this bloke is reliable.

“You just mentioned having saved Tangorn. If so, I’m in your debt, Sergeant; that man is really dear to me.”

“Whatever, we’ll settle it,” the other grunted. “Put on the uniform and let’s go. We even have an extra sword now.”

“What do you mean – ‘extra’?” Éowyn finally spoke. “No way!”

The Orocuen glanced at Faramir questioningly, but the prince only opened his hands: no arguing with this one. “Will we climb the stockade or try the gates?”

“Neither, Prince. The courtyard is chock-full of Whites, all in position and looking for trouble, no free pass there. We’ll try the tunnel.”

“The one in the wine cellar?”

“I don’t know of any others. Did Beregond tell you about it?”

“Certainly. I know that its door opens out but locks from the inside, so it can be neither unlocked nor broken down from the outside, as is standard for any secret tunnel out of a fortress. There’s always a sentry at the cellar door: nothing unusual about that, wine needs guarding. Beregond didn’t know where the key was and didn’t dare ask directly. So you’ve found the key?”

“No,” Tzerlag responded lightheartedly, “I’ll simply pick the lock.”

“How?”

“Exactly how I picked the lock to your door and a couple more on the way, and exactly how I’ll have to pick the lock to the cellar. That’ll be the most dangerous part, by the way: monkeying with the cellar door in plain view. But if we take down the sentry without fuss and open that door quickly, we’re three-quarters done. You, Prince, will stand guard in your new uniform, like nothing had happened, while Éowyn and I drag the knocked-out sentry inside and I start working the tunnel lock in peace.”

“But that lock has to be hard to pick?”

“I don’t think so. It’s most likely heavy and sturdy – it has to be, if the door is to withstand battering from outside – which means not too complicated. All right, let’s go! Prince, did you take the
palantír
? We have to make it while the Whites are still waiting for me in the courtyard and there’s only one sentry by the wine cellar.”

“Wait!” Éowyn spoke again. “What about Beregond? We can’t leave him here!”

“Oh, so Beregond has been arrested? We didn’t know that.”

“Yes, just now. They know everything about him.”

Tzerlag thought for only a couple of seconds: “No can do. We don’t know where he’s being held and will spend too much time looking. Tonight Grager will grab every single one of Cheetah’s men in the Settlement, so if we free the Prince, tomorrow we’ll trade Beregond. But if we don’t get you out, he has no chance anyway.”

“He’s right, Éowyn.” Faramir tightened the cinch of the sack with the
palantír
and hoisted it on his shoulder. “Let’s go, in Eru’s name!”

The Dúnadan standing guard at the wine cellar scanned the large dimly lit hall. The main entrance to the fort was on his left; to his right the three main stairs leading to the north and south wings and to the Knights Hall fanned out. What a strange decision to place the entrance to the cellar in this foyer, rather than in some hidey hole. Then again, everything in this here Ithilien is weird and unnatural. Start with the Prince, who’s not even a prince but rather a who knows what, and end with the rules of their White Company: whoever heard of passing officers off as sergeants and privates? It’d be one thing if it was a secret from the enemy, the local terrorists, say (although no one has seen any yet), but it’s from each other! Allegedly we’re in the same army, but we’re not supposed to know that Sergeant Gront is really a captain, while our Lieutenant His Grace Sir Elvard is passing as a private! Funny, but the Secret Guard guys probably still don’t know about Sir Elvard; like they told us at the briefing: the Secret Guard has its business while His Majesty’s Royal Dúnedain Guard has its own … I dunno, maybe the finks like this setup, but to an honest soldier it’s like glass on stone. What if it turns out that the chief here is the cook or the butler – wouldn’t that be funny?

The sentry looked up: he could hear the approaching footsteps of two people in the uneasy silence of the deserted fort. In a few seconds he saw them: a private and a sergeant were coming down the north wing stair at a quick clip, almost running. They were heading straight to the exit and looked extremely alarmed; are they going for help? The sergeant was gingerly carrying a sack with something large and round inside it in his outstretched arms. Almost abreast with the sentry they traded a few words and split up: the private kept going towards the exit, while the sergeant apparently decided to show his find to the Dúnadan. What’s he got there? Looks like it might be a severed head …

The rest happened so quickly that the sentry knew that something was off only when his hands were seized in a viselike grip, while the private who showed up behind his shoulder (to his astonishment, the sentry recognized Faramir) put a blade to his throat. “One word and you’re dead,” the prince promised without raising his voice. The Dúnadan swallowed convulsively; deathly pallor covered his face and drops of sweat rolled down his temples. The two impostors traded looks, and the ‘sergeant’ (shadowy Mandos! it’s an Orc!) smirked derisively: so this is the West’s fighting elite? The smirk turned out to be completely unwarranted: the young man desperately did not want to die, but in a couple of seconds he overcame his weakness and yelled: “Alarm!!” so loudly that shouts and clanging of arms echoed back throughout Emyn Arnen.

CHAPTER 29

C 
utting off the Dúnadan’s yell with one short chop (the man did not even moan – just sagged to the floor like a sack of meal), the Orocuen turned to Faramir and addressed a few choice words to His Highness, the mildest of which was ‘jackass.’ His Highness took it in stride; it was he who was suddenly overcome with sentimentality and tried to simply scare the sentry, rather than knock him out, as Tzerlag insisted. As usual, humanism only made things worse: the soldier got his predestined share of bruises and internal hemorrhages anyway, but all for naught. Their situation seemed hopeless now.

In any case there was no time to decide fault. Tzerlag instantly ripped off the sentry’s black cloak, tossed it to just-arrived Éowyn and snarled, pointing at the cellar door: “Stand there, both of you! Swords at the ready!” while he swiftly dragged the Dúnadan to the middle of the hall. The six soldiers who burst in a few seconds later found the leftovers of a very recent fight: the sentries at the cellar door stood ready to repel any further attack, while another Dúnadan was motionless on the floor; the sergeant kneeling by his side barely glanced at them, pointed imperatively towards the south stair and again bent over the wounded man. The soldiers ran where they were told to go, boots thundering, almost kicking the Orocuen with their scabbards. The group had a break of a few seconds.

“Shall we fight our way to the stockade?” The prince was clearly looking for a nice quick way to lose his head.

“No, stick to the original plan.” With those words Tzerlag got out his tools and calmly studied the lock.

“But they’ll immediately know what we’re doing!”

“Yep …” The pick went into the keyhole and began feeling out pins.

“So what then?”

“Three guesses, philosopher!”

“Fight?”

“Good boy! I’ll be working and you’ll be protecting me, just as our estates are supposed to do …”

Despite everything, the prince had to laugh: this guy was definitely to his liking. Right then, there was no time for laughing any more. The brief respite ended the way it had to: two confused Dúnadans came back down the south stair – who are we hunting, Sergeant? – and three real White Company sergeants appeared in the door. Those twigged to the situation right away and yelled: “Freeze! Drop your weapons!” and everything else one is supposed to yell in such circumstances.

Tzerlag kept working on the lock with great concentration, detachment even, ignoring everything happening behind his back. The conversation that started up was totally predictable: “Surrender your sword, Your Highness!” “Try taking it!” “Hey, who’s over there – come here!” He only glanced back, and then only for a moment, when the crossing blades first rang out above his head. Immediately the three White sergeants fell back; one of them, grimacing with pain, was carefully hugging his right hand under his arm, and his weapon was on the floor – the ‘magic circle’ erected by Faramir’s and Éowyn’s swords performed flawlessly so far. The prince, in turn, had no chance to glance back – the half-circle of Whites, bristling with steel, was drawing close, like a pack of wolves around a deer – but a short time later he heard a metallic click and then Tzerlag’s strange chuckle.

“What’s happening, Sergeant?”

“Everything’s fine, but just imagine this picture: the crown prince of Gondor and the sister of the King of Rohan are covering some Orc’s back with their lives …”

“Indeed it’s funny. How’s it going?”

“All set.” Behind them there was a creak of rusted hinges and a whiff of musty cold. “I’m going in; hold the door until my word.”

Meantime, the Whites have erected quite a barrier around them and froze. The prince clearly discerned growing confusion in their actions: where the hell is Cheetah and the rest of the commanders? Nevertheless, he was sure that those surrounding them were not attacking only because they were unaware of the tunnel’s existence. Finally, a private with a white band on his arm showed up and gave the prince a ceremonious bow:

“My apologies, Your Highness. I am Sir Elvard, lieutenant of the Dúnadan Royal Guard. Perhaps you will find it possible to surrender your sword to me?”

“What makes you better than the others?”

“Possibly the Secret Guard had committed some offense against your honor. If that’s the case, His Majesty’s Royal Guard, as represented by me, offers its sincere apologies and guarantees that this will not happen again and that the guilty parties shall be punished. Then we could conclude this unfortunate incident.”

“Fish don’t swim backwards, Lieutenant. Her Highness and I have decided to leave this fort as free people or die trying.”

“You leave me no choice but to disarm you by force.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant. Just be careful – you may cut yourself.”

This time the assault was more determined. However, while a certain line had not been crossed, the Prince and Princess of Ithilien had an advantage: Éowyn and Faramir inflicted stabbing wounds to the extremities without hesitation, whereas their opponents so far did not dare do so. In a short time the attackers had three lightly wounded and the attack fizzled out. The Dúnedain fought unenthusiastically and kept glancing at their lieutenant: give a clear order already! Cut these two down or what? The Secret Guard men had prudently taken position in the rear ranks, allowing Sir Elvard to take command (and responsibility), as the situation appeared deadlocked.

Then, just as Faramir congratulated himself on how good a job of buying time for Tzerlag they were doing, the man suddenly showed up by his side, scimitar in hand, and said in a lifeless voice:

“It’s a brand-new Umbarian lock, Prince, I can’t open it. Surrender before it’s too late.”

“It
is
too late,” Faramir snapped. “Tzerlag, can we save you somehow?”

The Orocuen shook his head: “Unlikely. They sure don’t need me for a prisoner.”

“Éowyn?”

“We will face Mandos together, beloved – what could be better?”

“Then let’s at least have some fun first.” With those words Faramir advanced recklessly towards the ranks of the Whites, right at Sir Elvard. “Hold on, Lieutenant! By the arrows of Oromë, we’re going to splash your master’s robes with our blood – he won’t ever wash it off!”

The hall filled with ringing of blades and fierce yells; the fight was now such that it became clear – soon there would be the first dead. That was when a voice sounded from somewhere on the north stair – seemingly quiet, but somehow penetrating the minds of all the combatants: “Stop, all of you! Faramir, please listen to me!” There was something in that voice that froze the fight for a few moments, so that Cheetah (in someone else’s cloak, leaning on something like a crutch with his left hand and on a White sergeant’s shoulder with his right) managed to reach the middle of the hall. He stopped amid the frozen tableau and his voice sounded a command: “Faramir, leave! Quick!” A small shiny object tossed by his hand bounced off Tzerlag’s chest, and the amazed sergeant picked up a fancy double-headed Umbarian key.

The freeze thawed instantly. At the Orocuen’s command Faramir and Éowyn moved back towards the door, he himself disappeared into the cellar again, and Sir Elvard, who had finally understood what just happened, cried out: “Treason! They’ll escape through the tunnel!” The lieutenant thought for a couple of seconds, arrived at a final decision, pointed at the prince with his sword and shouted: “Kill him!” Things got serious in a hurry. It immediately became obvious that Éowyn, at least, would not be able to hold out for more than a couple of minutes: the girl fenced perhaps even better than the prince, but the captured Dúnadan blade was too heavy to suit her well. They had each sustained a glancing wound (he to the right side, she to the left shoulder) when they finally heard: “It’s open, Prince! Retreat one by one between the barrels! I have the sack!”