The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [170]
"This is very naïve, Troll. I'm not calling you Cloud, because that name is as false as everything else you've told us. There are two golden rules for responding to an interrogation: avoid direct lies and too many details. You broke both. Tell me, driver of the mechanical dragon, what was the strength and direction of the wind on that day?"
That's it, then – who would've thought that the Elf knew anything about flying? In any event, while spinning all that nonsense Kumai was readying a certain surprise for his interrogators. The dejected pose he had assumed allowed him to gather his legs under him, and now, seeing that the game was up, he lunged forward like an uncoiling spring, trying to reach the Elf in the silver-black cloak with his free left hand. He would have probably succeeded if not for another mistake: he met the Elf's eye in the process.
The clofoel of Tranquility stopped the leather-jacket guy from dashing at the suddenly frozen Troll with an annoyed flick of the wrist – why bother now? – and turned to his companion with a mocking smile: "So how about spending some time alone with this specimen, milady Eornis? Changed your mind?"
"On the contrary – he's magnificent, a real beast!"
"You sport! Very well, since you like his manhood so much, you can keep him. But not until we work him a little, lest he die in your embrace – it could happen, you know – and take everything he knows with him… You'd be really upset with such an outcome, wouldn't you?"
Chapter 62
"Wake up!" The leather-jacket standing behind Kumai's chair kicked him habitually in the Achilles' tendon, the pain immediately jerking the Troll out of a second-long blissful unconsciousness.
"Where did you fly from? What was your mission?" That was the man at the table. They worked together: one asking questions (the same ones over and over, hour after hour), the other kicking the prisoner's heel from behind whenever he tried either to stand up or to put down his head, leaden with insomnia. The kicks were not even that strong, but always in the same spot, so after a dozen hits the pain turned unbearable, making all his thoughts about the next inevitable kick… Kumai had no illusions: this was not even a warm-up. They simply had not started on him in earnest yet, only depriving him of water and sleep so far.
The engineer forbade himself to consider what might follow once they saw that he was not going to cooperate. He simply decided to hold out for as long as possible to buy some time for Grizzly and Wolverine – maybe those smart guys would figure out the danger and save the Weapon Monastery. He had absent-mindedly left a map with the flight route to the Nimrodel on top of his work table, and his only hope now was that someone would find it and connect it to his disappearance. But how are they to guess that I'm alive and in the Elves' hands, rather than dead? What can they do even if they guess – evacuate Dol Guldur? Don't know; revelations and miracles are the One's job, mine is to hold out and hope…
"Wake up!" This time the guy behind him overdid his blow, knocking Kumai out. When the engineer came to, the leather-jacket at the table had been replaced by the Elf in the silverblack cloak.
"Have you ever been told that you're an incredibly lucky man, Troll?"
He had lost track of time some unbelievably long time ago; the harsh light bounced off the walls and ate at his watering eyes, and a handful of hot sand had accumulated under each eyelid. He squeezed his eyes shut and once again slid into the abyss of sleep… This time he was brought back almost politely, with a shake of the shoulder instead of the usual kick – something