The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [169]
Lady Galadriel: Could your dancers be mistaken, clofoel of Stars?
Clofoel of Stars: I would like to believe that, o radiant Lady. We will dance again tonight…
**
Kumai came to sooner than the Elves expected. Lifting his head painfully, he saw brilliant white walls with no windows; the sickly bluish light of the phial over a bar door seemed to drip off them onto the floor. He had no clothes on and his right hand was chained to the narrow bed, which was attached to the floor; when he touched his head he jerked his hand back in surprise: it was clean-shaven, with a long recent scar on its top smeared in something stinky and oily to the touch. He leaned back slowly, closed his eyes, and swallowed convulsively: understanding everything, he was scared as never before in his life. He would have given anything for a chance to die right then, before they got started, but – alas! – he had nothing left to give.
"Get up, Troll! No rest for the spawn of Morgoth! You have a long road to hell before you, so let's get underway."
There were three Elves – a man and a woman in identical silver-black cloaks and a deferential muscleman in a leather jacket. They appeared in the cell without a sound, moving with unnatural lightness, like huge moths, but somehow it was clear that they had strength to match a Troll's. The Elf-woman looked the prisoner over unceremoniously and whispered something – apparently obscene – to her companion; the man grimaced chidingly.
"Maybe you'd like to tell us something yourself, Troll?"
"Maybe I would." Kumai sat up, carefully lowering his legs off the bed, and was now waiting for nausea to subside. He had made a decision and fear receded, having no room left. "What do I get in return?"
"In return?!" The impudence struck the Elf speechless for a couple of seconds. "An easy death. Is that not enough?"
"No, it's not. Easy death is already there for me; I've had a weak heart since childhood, so torturing me is useless; it'll end when it begins."
The Elf gave a silvery laugh. "You lie beautifully and engagingly."
Kumai shrugged. "Give it a try. The higher-ups will give you hell if a spy dies under questioning, no?"
"We are the higher-ups, Troll." The Elf sat down on a chair just brought into the cell by the man in leather jacket. "But please continue lying, we're listening with interest."
What's there to lie about? He's no child and understands his position. But he's no dumb fanatic and has no wish to die for Motherland, his oath, or other such phantoms. Whatever for? The bosses keep sending them to certain death while sitting it out in the rear, cowardly dogs that they are… He'll tell all he knows, and he knows quite a lot, having been on a lot of special missions for a long time – but not for free. Do you promise to keep him alive? It's such a small thing for you. In an underground prison forever, in a lead mine, blinded and castrated, but alive?
"Say your piece, then, Troll. If you tell the truth and we find it interesting, we'll find you a job in our mines. What do you think, milady Eornis?"
"Sure! Why not let him keep his life?"
Very well, his name is Cloud (shouldn't get tripped up, he did have such a nickname as a child – that brat Sonya came up with it and it stuck to him until the University), Engineer Second Class, his last military unit was a guerilla band led by… Indun (that was an old professor who taught them optics during sophomore year). The band is based in TzaganTzab Gorge in the Ash Mountains (that's where Dad's mine is, the place is nature-made for guerilla warfare, there has to be Resistance there… anyway, can't come up with anything else that'd be consistent on the spot). Yesterday… wait, what day is it today? Ah yes, of course, you ask the questions here, sorry… Anyway, on the morning of the twenty-second he received orders to fly to Lórien so as to reach it on that night and spy out the positioning of the lights in the valley of Nimrodel.