The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [157]
…The discussion on the path was becoming more protracted. Haladdin took down his ponyaga (as usual, the first sensation was an illusion of blissfully floating on air, quickly replaced by the accumulated weariness of the march) and approached the rangers. Both sergeants looked worried: they have been walking paths through deep forest, avoiding the road joining Dol Guldur to Morannon, and yet the scouts constantly felt human presence even in these enchanted thickets. And now this: fresh bootprints of a Mordorian infantryman… yet Sharya-Rana had mentioned no Mordorian forces near the fortress.
"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 wornout 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 ichigas – so what?"
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 ichigas – no detail is too small."
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 Lórien 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,