The Last Ringbearer

to his hammered genitals, there are a few options available; for example, Tzerlag’s step- three training had been to smash open palms over the opponent’s ears: burst eardrums and a guaranteed knock-out. This ain’t no exquisite ballet of the far-eastern martial arts, where the hieroglyphs of each position are but notation marks for the music of the Higher Spheres; this is Mordorian hand-to-hand combat, where everything is simple and to the point.

First he kneeled and pulled up the eyelid of the spirited White Company sergeant (good, the pupil is reacting, Grager’s order had not been violated), and only then allowed himself to lean against the wall in momentary exhaustion. Squeezing eyes shut, he forced himself to swallow against the pain: thank the One, the throat is intact. What if the guy had a garrote? It’d’ve been the end for sure. How did I screw up so badly? More importantly, how did he figure me out? Wait, this means that they’ll be waiting for me at Faramir’s door, too…

…The Dunadan sentry in the corridor leading to the Prince’s bedchamber heard heavy dragging footfalls on the stairs. A rustle, a muffled moan, then quiet… unsure footfalls again… He quickly backed into the corridor and drew his sword, ready to sound the alarm at any moment. The soldier was ready for anything, but when he saw Cheetah at the end of the corridor, bent over double and leaning on the wall, his jaw dropped. Sword at the ready, the sentry moved forward and quickly scanned the stairs which the captain just ascended – nothing; Great Manwe, who did this to him? Is it poison? Meanwhile, the captain lost what strength he still had, slid down the wall and was still, head down and still holding his belly; it was evident that he had walked the last few steps on autopilot. The Dunadan looked at Cheetah with mixed amazement, fear, and – let’s be honest – some glee. The vaunted Secret Guard! Homegrown nin’yokve, right… He looked at the stairs where the captain straggled from once more time and crouched down to examine the wounded man.

Weird, but when the hood covering Cheetah’s face fell back, the soldier’s first thought was that the almighty chief of counter-intelligence had for some reason known only to him decided to turn into an Orc. That was his first absurd thought and he had no time for a second one: the ‘tiger’s paw’ strike which Tzerlag had chosen for this occasion is very effective, especially when administered from down up; nothing more was necessary. Pretty cruel treatment, no doubt, but there was no ban on injuries, only on killing; maybe we’re playing a war game, but dammit, it’s still not a picnic! After searching the sentry (no keys, but Tzerlag was not really expecting any), the sergeant fished his goodies out of the pack and got started on the lock.

Pulling up the too-long sleeves of Cheetah’s jacket, he thought as he worked: to think that we made it through the entire war without this, but I had to do it now. Laws and Customs of War, paragraph two – using the enemy’s uniform and medical symbols. This rates an instant hanging on the nearest tree – rightly so, by the by. Well, it’ll come in handy now – better to show up at the prince’s as a familiar jailer, rather than some Orc. Aha! Here’s what I’m gonna do: put the hood down again and hand him Grager’s paper without a word. The lock finally gave way, and Tzerlag breathed easier: halfway done! He had worked on the lock kneeling, and opened the door from that position, before standing up. That was what saved him – otherwise not even the Orocuen’s lightning reflexes would have been enough to block Faramir’s strike.

It is fairly easy, obvious even, to hit a man entering a room from behind a doorpost (provided that it juts far enough from the wall), but there is a catch. A man best perceives whatever is happening at his eye level, so if you decide to hammer the visitor on the head with something like a chair leg, this move will surprise only a total amateur. This is why people in the know (such as the prince) do not go after brute strength. Instead, they crouch and strike horizontally, rather than vertically. The blow, as mentioned, comes out weaker, but it hits right where it counts; most importantly, it is exceedingly difficult to react to.

Faramir’s script for the next scene was as follows: once Cheetah (or whoever enters first) bends over with pain, the prince would pull him into the room, beyond the left doorpost. Eowyn, standing behind the right doorpost, behind the opened door, would shut and block it with all her weight. Those left outside would immediately try to break in, but their first attempt would likely be disorganized, giving the girl a good chance to hold it for a few seconds. Those few seconds should be enough for Faramir to knock Cheetah out and grab his weapons. Eowyn would move aside then; those assaulting the door would by then get organized enough to slam into it together – “on my mark!” – and tumble into the room, possibly falling over. Faramir would immediately stab one of them – no more joking around. This would likely leave no more than two Whites standing, and since the prince is one of the top twenty swords of Gondor, the royal couple’s chances range from pretty good to excellent should Eowyn manage to grab the second sword. Then they would change into White Company uniforms and try to sneak out of the fort.

This plan had some weak spots (mostly where coordinated action was concerned), but overall it was pretty good, especially considering that its primary goal was death with dignity, with escape to freedom a possible bonus. However, as already mentioned, the Orocuen was kneeling when he opened the door, so Faramir’s first blow hit him in the chest and he managed to put up a block. Amazed by the prisoner’s perceptiveness – just imagine recognizing an Orc under a White Company sergeant’s hood! – Tzerlag somersaulted back into the corridor, but by the time he got to his feet Faramir was already out of the room and had cut off his retreat, while his improvised club was a whirl of wood that was impossible to block. When a moment later that blond wildcat slipped behind his back, the sergeant was reduced to rolling around on the floor, dodging blows and calling out in the most undignified manner: “Friendly, friendly, Prince! I’m with Grager and Tangorn! Dammit, stop already!”

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. Anyway, the Baron asked that you take the palantir 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 yielded the initiative to the Ithilienians and switched to ‘take this – go there’ mode. He only nodded questioningly towards the Dunadan 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 very strictly.” 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.”