he was a subordinate rather than an ally now, and that the life of Eowyn, under special guard in the Minas Tirith hospital, depended entirely on his reasonableness.
“Oh, dear Eomer no doubt can run me through right here and now – and then watch what will happen to his sister in this
“We are immediately moving on Mordor, for I can only accept the crown of Gondor when we return victorious. As for Faramir, I am inclined to grant him one of Gondor’s duchies… oh, Ithilien, say. To tell the truth, he had always been more interested in poetry and philosophy than in matters of state. But we should not plan that far ahead, since his condition is critical and he may not survive until our return. So pray for his health, dearest Imrahil, incessantly during our campaign; they say that the Valar especially appreciate the prayers of a best friend… When do we set out? Immediately after we clean up the remnants of the South Army at Osgiliath. Any questions? Good!”
The moment the tent was empty, the man in a gray cloak standing behind Aragorn said in a respectful reproach: “You have taken an unjustified risk, Your Majesty. This Eomer was clearly beside himself; he could have cast everything aside and lashed out…”
The ranger turned to him and bit out: “You strike me as both too talkative and too unobservant for a member of Secret Guard.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty – a
Aragorn’s mocking gaze went over the speaker’s swarthy dry face, lingering on rows of tiny holes around the lips. A silence fell for almost a minute.
“Heh, I’ve almost decided that your brains must’ve dried up in the crypt and you would now question its provenance… By the way, I keep forgetting to ask: why do they sew your mouths shut?”
“Not just mouths, Your Majesty. The belief is that all openings in a mummy’s body must be closed up, lest the departed spirit re-enter it on the fortieth day and take vengeance on the living.”
“That’s a rather naive method of… um… contraception.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” the gray man allowed himself a smile, “and I am living proof of that.”
“Living, eh? How about the ‘vengeance on the living’ bit?” “We only follow orders. Our shadow is your shadow.”
“So whether I tell you to kill a child or become like a father to him, it’s all the same to you?”
“Absolutely. I will perform either duty to the best of my ability.”
“All right, this suits me. Here’s a job for you in the meantime. The other day one of my Northern comrades-in-arms, a certain Anakit, got drunk and boasted to his friends that soon he will be as rich as Tingol. Supposedly he has information about some legendary sword for which a certain someone will pay any price. This talk has to end immediately.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Those who listened to these boasts…”
“Whatever for?”
“You think?..”
“Remember this, my dear friend: I kill without hesitation, but I never – never, you hear me? – kill unless absolutely necessary. Understand?”
“This is truly wise, Your Majesty.”
“You take too many liberties, Lieutenant,” said the ranger in a tone that would chill many a man.
“Our shadow is your shadow,” repeated the other calmly. “So, in a way, you and us are now one. May I carry out your orders?”
There is not much to add. The Western Coalition army (joined by the turncoat Easterlings who were ‘forgiven’ by the victors) set out for its last campaign, the highlight of which was the March 23rd mutiny of the Westfold Rohirrim and Lossarnach militiamen, who could not for the life of them understand why they had to die far from home for Aragorn’s crown. Having ruthlessly put down the revolt, the Dunadan brought his army to the Cormallen field at the entrance to Morannon, where he met the last defenders of Mordor; the latter had already exhausted its reserves, having invested them all in the South Army. The coalition won; that is to say, the men of Gondor, Rohan, and East simply piled the fastnesses of Morannon with their corpses. The Elves, as usual, joined the battle when it was already decided. The losses of the victors were so massive that a legend about a huge Army of the East had to be quickly invented. The Mordorians there died to a man, including King Sauron; the latter fought in the ranks of his Royal Mounted Guard in a captain’s cloak, so his body was never identified. The chronicles of the Western countries mostly gloss over the Coalition’s deeds after the victory, for the slaughter it carried out inside Mordor had been horrific even by the not-too-humanitarian standards of the time.
Be that as it may, Gandalf’s plan had succeeded (if you don’t count the small matter of the Mirror, which the Elves had no intention of returning): the Mordorian civilization had ceased to exist. However, the wizards of the White Council had somehow forgotten one factor: namely, that there is a certain Someone in the world Who rather abhors complete victories and assorted ‘final solutions,’ and is capable of showing His displeasure with same in unimaginably startling ways. Even now, that Someone was dispassionately surveying the vanquished – all that flotsam cast ashore by the passed storm – when suddenly He rested His gaze upon two soldiers of the extinct South Army among the dunes of the desert of Mordor.
Chapter 10
Mordor, the Teshgol boundary
April 9, 3019
“So why not wait until nightfall?” Haladdin whispered.
“Because if this really is a trap and the guys who set it are not total idiots, they’ll expect company by evening. What does the Field Manual teach us, doctor?” Tzerlag raised a finger. “Right – do the opposite of what the foe expects. So, don’t move until my signal, and if I’m lost, may the One preserve me, even more so. Clear?”
He cast another look at the camp and muttered: “Damn, I don’t like this picture.”