The Last Ringbearer

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 Sul the distant palantir 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 palantir. “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 Lorien 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 palantir

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 palantir: “I hear you! Who’s calling me?”

“I could have introduced myself as a nazgul 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 palantir 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 Nazgul 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 palantiri.’ 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 Nazgul have decided to use Vakalabath to destroy the palantiri