The Last Ringbearer

“I’ll explain later, every minute counts now. Forward march, warriors!.. Wait – gimme a couple cola nuts, I could use them, too.”

After seeing his comrades move off, the scout got busy. He had plenty of things to do, most of them small and easily overlooked ones. For example, he had to gather all the stuff that might come in handy later, should they survive this bind – from Elvish weapons to Tangorn’s books – and bury it, carefully noting landmarks. Then to prepare his own sack – water, rations, warm cloaks, weapons – and stash it on the hamada. Now for the most important task.

Tzerlag’s idea, prompted unexpectedly by Haladdin’s outburst, was simple. Suppose that Eloar had not perished in the attack, but ran off into the desert and got lost? That would be quite likely – an Elf in a desert is like an Orocuen in a forest – and his comrades would first and foremost search for their prince (or whoever he was), and only then for the guerillas who wasted six Easterling mercenaries (no big loss). He now had to turn this preposterous supposition into certain fact.

He took moccasins off the Elf’s feet and picked up the cut-up leather breastplate; saw a simple silver ring on the corpse’s left hand and pocketed that, too, just in case. Then he dug a pit about two feet deep, put the corpse there and covered it with carefully smoothed sand. By itself this is a lame trick unless you create an illusion that the sand could not possibly have been disturbed. For that, we will need another dead body, preferably with minimum damage; the sentry killed by Haladdin’s arrow will do just fine. Carefully Tzerlag carried the body to the spot where he hid the Elf, slit the Easterling’s throat from ear to ear and drained the blood the way hunters do with big game; then he dropped the body into the pool of blood and arranged it in a natural-looking way. It now looks obvious that the mercenary died on this spot; a normal person is not very likely to look for a body right under another one, in blood-soaked sand, unless he knows exactly what to look for.

All right, half the job is done – the Elf has disappeared, and now he will acquire a very much alive and sprightly double. The Orocuen changed into the Elf’s moccasins (damn, how can they wear such boots, without a proper hard sole!) and ran south along the foot of the dune, trying to leave good tracks where the ground was harder. He had donned the Elf’s slit breastplate like a vest and carried his own indispensable desert boots in his hands. About a mile and a half from the camp the sergeant halted; he had never been a good runner, and now his heart was beating somewhere near the throat, trying to escape. The distance was already adequate; the ‘Elf’ will now move onto the hamada, where he will leave no tracks. The scout tossed Eloar’s leather armor about fifteen paces beyond the spot where the tracks ended; this will serve to confirm both the fugitive’s identity and, indirectly, his course (south).

Stop and think again, he said to himself. Perhaps it’s best not to leave the breastplate here at all – too obvious. All right, what would I do if I were him? I am a fugitive who’s unsure of where to go next; looks like I’ve lost my pursuers, but now I have to wander in this terrible desert for who knows how long, and it’s scarier than any human foe. It’s high time to ditch everything I can to lighten the load; this thing is not that useful anyway, if I survive I can buy another one of these in any armor shop… Sounds reasonable? Yep. Why did I take it off now rather than earlier? Just had no time when fleeing, but now I’ve stopped, looked around… Sounds reasonable? Sure does. And why is it sliced like that? Because it won’t be the friendlies that find it, but rather the enemies who’re hunting me; by the way, they’re certainly tracking me, so it’s high time to move onto gravel. Sounds reasonable? Yeah… Anyway, never think the enemy stupid, but don’t assume that they’re geniuses, either.

He was almost ready for the sprint back – changed into his boots and ate a bitter cola nut – when his gaze fell on the breastplate lying on the stones of the hamada like a cracked eggshell, and realization of an almost-made mistake drenched him in cold sweat. An eggshell – how did the Elf crack out of it? Cut it off himself? It’s precisely this kind of a trifle that can blow a whole operation! All right, unlace it… No! I the Elf am in a hurry, I don’t need the armor any more – rather, cut the cord. Now it’s all set.

He jogged back along the hamada, heading for the barely visible glint of the dying fire, where his pack awaited. The cola filled him with a treacherous lightness, so that he had to deliberately slow down, lest his heart burst. Picking up the pack, he forced himself to rest for a few minutes and then resumed course; now he had to look out for Haladdin and Tangorn, which slowed him down. It turned out that they have covered over two miles already – an excellent pace he did not even count on. The scout saw Haladdin first – he was resting, sitting on the ground with his expressionless bloodless face turned up towards the stars. He had been carrying the baron for the last half a mile, and now Tangorn was back on his crutches, trying doggedly to gain them another few yards.

“Have you guys polished off all of that Elvish wine?”

“No, we’ve left some for you.”

Tzerlag scanned his comrades, estimated the remaining trip and ordered them to take cola. He knew that tomorrow (if there was a tomorrow) their bodies would pay a nightmarish price both for this drug and for the poppy balls, but there was no other way to make the trek. Later Haladdin realized that he could not remember any of it. He remembered clearly that the cola had not only breathed new life into his weary muscles, but also sharpened all his senses amazingly, greatly expanding their range – from the familiar constellations, which suddenly shone with a multitude of previously invisible tiny stars, to the smell of dung smoke from someone’s incredibly distant fire – but he could not remember a single detail of their journey.

That memory gap ended just as suddenly as it began; the world became real once again, and reality brought back pain, and weariness so enormous that it even pushed the sense of danger somewhere to the back of his consciousness. He found himself lying flat against the ground behind a tiny ridge about thirty yards away from their desired ruins, with the massive cube of the outpost looming behind it in the predawn light.

“Maybe we should sprint?” he asked in a barest whisper.

“Like hell!” the scout hissed furiously, “see the sentry on the roof?”

“Does he see us?”

“Not yet: he’s silhouetted against the grey sky, we’re against dark ground. But if you move he’ll definitely see you.”

“But it’s dawning already…”

“Shut up, willya? It’s bad enough as it is…”

Suddenly the stony ground under Haladdin vibrated with a new ominous sound: a dry fast drumming which quickly congealed into a rumble resembling an avalanche. A large troop of riders was approaching along the highway, and resurgent fear was already yelling at him: “They saw you! They’re surrounding you! Run!..” – when the sergeant’s calm whisper brought him back to his senses: “Ready! On my mark – no earlier! – run as fast as you can. Take the pack, the crutches, and the weapons; I’ll take the baron. This is our one and only chance.”

Meanwhile the troop had arrived at the outpost and the usual commotion ensued: cursing riders were pushing their way through the throng of milling foot soldiers, their commander was arguing with the local one, the guttural shouts of the Easterlings mingled with the Elves’ alarmed trilling, the roof suddenly sported three silhouettes rather than one – and then unbelieving Haladdin heard a quiet: “Now!”