river right before the mouth of Limlight river originating from Fangorn. The Enchanted Forests began here – Lorien on the right bank, Mirkwood on the left; that left less than sixty miles to Dol Guldur as the crow flies. Faramir’s men remained behind to guard the boats (on the Rohan bank, just in case), while the three of them reached the jagged black-green wall of Mirkwood firs the next day.
This forest was completely unlike the sun- and life-filled groves of Ithilien: complete absence of undergrowth and bush made it resemble a colonnade of some mammoth temple. Silence reigned under its ceiling, as a thick carpet of acrid-green moss, dotted here and there by little whitish flowers that resembled potato sprouts, swallowed all sound. This stillness and the greenish twilight made for a perfect illusion of being under water, further enhanced by ‘seaweed’ – unappetizing hoary beards of lichen hanging off fir branches. Not a ray of sunlight, not a breath of a breeze – Haladdin physically felt the pressure of a thick sheet of water. The trees were enormous, their true size given away only by the fallen trunks; these were impossible to climb over, so they had to go around them anywhere from a hundred to hundred fifty feet in either direction. Larger patches of storm-felled trees were completely impassable and had to be circumvented. The insides of those trunks were carved out by huge palm-sized ants that fiercely attacked anyone who dared touch their abode. Twice they came across relatively fresh human skeletons; graceful coal-black butterflies swarmed noiselessly over the bones, and this was scary enough for even the jaded Orocuen to make the sign of an Eye. Packs of werewolves and wheel-sized spiders turned out to be fairy tales: the forest did not deign to actively oppose Man, being absolutely alien to him, like the ocean expanse or the cold fire of Ephel Duath glaciers; the forest’s power expressed itself in alienation and rejection, rather than confrontation, which is why forester Runcorn felt it most acutely. It was this power that Dol Guldur had been gathering inside its charmed stones over the ages, century after century, drop by drop. The three magic fastnesses – Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, Minas Morgul by the Cirith Ungol pass, and Ag-Jakend amidst the lifeless high mountain plateau called Shurab in northern Khand – enclosed Mordor in a protective triangle fed by the ancient power of the forest, the light of mountain snow, and the silence of the desert. The Nazgul that had erected these magical ‘resonators’ made them look like fortresses in order to conceal their true purpose; one supposes that they must have had a good laugh watching yet another Western general wander the cracked stones of Dol Guldur’s courtyards, trying to locate any sign of a garrison that had just engaged his soldiers. (This trick was last used two months ago: the ‘shadow garrison’ had distracted the Elves and the Esgaroth militia for almost two weeks, allowing the real North Army to retreat to Morannon almost without casualties.) Only the castle’s dungeons were off limits to everyone, protected by clear warnings in Common chiseled into the walls.
…The discussion on the path was becoming more protracted. Haladdin took down his
“Perhaps deserters from the North Army back then?”
“Unlikely…” Tzerlag scratched his head. “Any deserter would’ve fled these parts immediately, anywhere’s better than here. This one is stationed somewhere nearby: judging by the depth of the print, he’s carrying no load.”
“Strange tracks,” Runcorn confirmed, “the soldiers of your North Army have to have worn- out boots, but these look like they’re fresh from the warehouse. Look how sharp the edge is.”
“How do you know that these are Mordorians?”
The scouts traded slightly offended looks. “Well, the height of the heel, the shape of the toe…”
“That’s not what I mean. Tzerlag and I here are wearing
There was a brief silence. “Damn. Yeah, that’s true, but why?”
There was, indeed, no sense to it, and the decision Haladdin made suddenly was totally irrational – a stab in the dark. Strictly speaking, it was not even his decision; rather, some unseen power ordered him to go ahead. When this happens, you either obey or quit the game.
“All right, here’s what we’ll do. As I understand it, it’s less than a dozen miles to Dol Guldur. We will go to the road now, where you will camp and I’ll continue to the fortress alone. If I’m not back in three days, I’m dead and you’re to go back. Do not approach the fortress under any circumstances. Any circumstances, understand?”
“Are you crazy, sir?” the Orocuen piped up.
“Sergeant Tzerlag,” he had never even suspected himself to be capable of such a tone, “do you understand your orders?”
“Yeah…” the man hesitated, but only for a second. “Yes, Field Medic Second Class, sir!”
“Wonderful. I need to have some sleep and a good think about what I’m going to tell these guys in brand-new boots, should they be in charge at the fortress. Who I am, where have I been all these months, how did I get here, and all that… why I’m shod in
Chapter 57
Kumai turned the rudder, and the glider hung motionlessly in the sky, resting its widespread wings on empty air with ease and confidence. You could see all of Dol Guldur plainly from here, with all its decorative bastions and battlements, the central donjon (all workshops now), and the thread of the road winding between heather-covered hillocks. He scanned the environs and grinned contentedly: hiding their ‘Weapon Monastery’ here in the boonies, right under the Lorien Elves’ noses, was a brilliantly impudent undertaking. Many of the colleagues gathered under the roof of the magic fortress were unsettled (some had constant nightmares, others developed strange ailments), but Trolls are thick-skinned, phlegmatic, and believe neither dreams nor signs, so the engineer felt great here and worked day and night.
Formally their chief was Jageddin – the famed master of chemistry, optics, and electrical mechanics from the Barad-Dur University – but the real master here was Commandant Grizzly, who really did resemble a huge gray bear from the wooded foothills of the Northeast; none of them knew his real name or his rank in the Secret Service. Kumai could not even figure out his race; maybe one of the northern Trolls that used to live in the Misty Mountains before melting into Dungarians and Angmarians?
Kumai met the commandant immediately upon his arrival at the fortress (the Superintendant’s people got him there in stages along the Dol Guldur highway – they turned out to have a regular route there, moving convoys almost every other day). Grizzly
