The Last Ringbearer

own game. Sure, I will do everything to save my boy, but I’m not even considering sticking to the conditions of their bargain. In the morning I’ll have the palantir, on noon of August first I’ll learn the name of the crown prince of Mordor – who else could it be? – and when it’s time to exchange the hostages I’ll make sure that they all remain in my hands, no worries. Apparently, these Men aren’t familiar with the Elves’ power; well, they’ll learn.

It’s not the Men that I have to fear – what can those dung worms do? – but my own kind. When I win this game I will lay a palantir and the head of a Mordorian prince at the feet of the Sovereigns, and no one will dare open their mouth – the winner is always right. Whereas if I fail or they simply won’t let me finish the game, the whole affair will be cast as a pact with the Enemy, as treason. The clofoel of Tranquility would give his right hand for a chance to charge me with that and send me to his dungeons under the Mound of Somber Mourning… Should he have even a shadow of doubt regarding my talks with the Ithilienians, his Guards will start digging like only they can, and then I’m finished. I did explain my visit to Emyn Arnen to Lady Galadriel by the need to check on news from Umbar: “someone in Lorien, possibly the clofoel of Tranquility, has apparently begun his own game with Aragorn.” Once he finds out about that conversation – which he will – he’ll have no choice but to thoroughly besmirch me in the eyes of the Sovereigns, and he’ll work hard at it.

She gave a start as it occurred to her: what if this whole business, including the happenings in Umbar, is nothing but a long-term play by the clofoel of Tranquility, and a Guard’s hand will be on my shoulder the moment I pick up a sack with a stone imitating a palantir? Elandar and those Ithilienian barons working against me for the clofoel of Tranquility?! Nonsense… I’m being afraid of my own shadow. How come the Ithilienian spies are teaming with Mordorians, obviously with Faramir’s knowledge? That’s clear, actually: they hope to gain, as their commission in the bargain, an Elvish clofoel compromised by working with the Enemy, and therefore forever pliant. Which is how it would’ve come out had I any intention of playing along.

In any event there’s no going back now: the only thing that will save me is a victory in this ‘prisoner exchange.’ Not only will it save me, it will elevate me to the next level! Afterwards I’ll find those who will put the sack with the Seeing Stone by the Polar Star tonight; I will do it myself, with my Service, ahead of the Guards, and expose those traitors to the Council: “Our incomparable preserver of Tranquility had been so busy looking for conspiracies – we all know what that’s worth – that he managed to overlook a real Enemy spy network in Caras Galadhon. Or, perhaps, he did not overlook it at all? Perhaps this network is connected higher than I dare suggest?” He won’t survive such a blow, no matter how Lord Cereborn covers for him; it will be a clear victory for the Lady and me.

…In the meantime, Kumai’s Dragon glided invisibly through Lorien’s night sky along the dimly reflecting meanders of Nimrodel. Once he saw a large spread of bright bluish lights forming a pretty good star map in the middle of a valley, the engineer relaxed and guided the glider down; so far everything was going according to plan. He located the Dipper, for some reason called the Sickle of the Valar in those parts, among these ‘constellations’ – good, just where it belongs in the real sky, with the Polar Star in the right place. Wonder what those lamps are made from? The light is obviously cold – perhaps the same stuff that luminesces in rotting mushrooms? The Dipper was growing fast; Kumai felt on the bottom of the cockpit for the sack he had extracted last night from its hiding place in the back of the Dol Guldur fireplace, and suddenly cursed through clenched teeth: “Damn, he never told me the actual size of that thing – how am I to figure my altitude in this dark?”

Haladdin had originally asked him to just retrieve the sack from the hiding place and drop it somewhere far away from the fortress during the next flight, so he could pick it up and get away. Then the doctor cut himself off in mid-sentence and asked, amazed: “Listen, maybe you can fly all the way to Lorien from here?”

“Sure, no sweat. Well, not exactly no sweat, but I can.”

“What about at night?”

“Well, I haven’t flown such distances at night before – it’s hard to navigate.”

“What if it’s the night of the full moon, and the target site has guiding lights?” “In that case it will be easier. Do you need aerial reconnaissance?”

“No. You see, I remembered how good you’ve gotten at dropping shells on ground targets. That’s exactly what you need to do in Lorien.”

Kumai had justified a night flight to his Dol Guldur superiors with a suggestion to practice night bombing. “Whatever the hell for?” “To drop incendiary shells onto enemy camps. If you have to put out burning tents on the night before a battle rather than getting some sleep, you won’t be in good shape to fight in the morning.” “Hmm… sounds reasonable. Very well; try it, engineer.” He took off at sunset (“I’ll fly around a bit until it gets dark”), made a wide turn so as not to be seen from the fortress, and only then headed west-north-west. He found the place where Nimrodel emptied into Anduin while it was still light, the rest was fairly routine…

Kumai let go and the sack disappeared into the ‘star’-studded darkness below. Two seconds later the glider’s nose covered the Polar Star: all set. If he wasn’t off by much figuring his altitude, the target has been hit. “Is it some sort of poison?” “No, magic.” “Magic?! You got nothing better to do?” “Trust me: the Lorien dudes won’t like this sack at all.” “Well, well. When things are really bad, people always swap magicians for physicians…” Whatever – he did his part, it’s the commanders’ job to know what all this is for. The less you know the better you sleep. Time to turn around and go home; it’s a long way, plus the wind is getting stronger.

When Kumai took a habitually daring turn over the sleepy waters of Nimrodel, he failed to take one thing into account: the height of the mallorns. Or, rather, he had no idea that such tall trees even exist.

There was a crash when one of the branches touched a wingtip, seemingly lightly, turning the glider into a spinning winged seed like those that the mallorns drop by the hundreds onto the wilted elanors in the fall.

There was another crash when the helpless Dragon spun right and slammed into the neighboring tree, tearing its skin, breaking its spine and bones.

Finally, there was a third crash when all that debris fell down along the trunk and onto a talan full of stunned Elves, almost right at the feet of the clofoel of Tranquility.

Strictly speaking, Kumai had done his job by then and could have been written off as an acceptable loss, with an appropriate mention of the omelet whose preparation requires breaking a few eggs. There was, however, one complicating circumstance: the Troll got