The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [182]
"No, just the sticky ankasar juice," she replied, and then added pleadingly, staring at the wall: "Please listen to me…"
"Quiet!"
The last word came out slightly muffled: apparently, the clofoel of Tranquility behind her back had already bent over, feeling the bottom side of the crystal – meaning that it was time. While pretending to conduct a pitiful loser's haggle, Eornis had been pushing through the dense crashing waves of the Mirror's magic field to the sticky gray ropes of the Web spell binding the Troll. Every spell carries an imprint of its caster, making him the only one able to lift it – doing so is a mortal danger to all others, and usually useless, too. Fortunately, the Web is one of the simplest spells, purely technical and almost bereft of a personality imprint, so it's worth a risk. Now everything will hinge on what the freed Troll will do. Of course, he's been broken by knowledge that he had somehow told everything he knew to the enemy; the question is – how broken? If he had turned into jelly, I'm finished; but if he's still a Man and would like to at least pay back the one who tricked him into a betrayal, I can help him. I help him, he helps me…
Suddenly Eornis ripped at the Web the way one rips a bandage stuck to a wound – in one swift movement, the only possibility here. A horrible pain knocked her out for a moment; so this is what lifting another's spell is like, even when it's a trifle like the Web being removed by an Elvish clofoel… By the time she surfaced from her unconsciousness a few seconds later, it was all over – the clofoel of Tranquility lay prone on the floor near the Mirror, his head turned at an unnatural angle, as if trying to see something behind his back. The Troll must have fallen on the Elf kneeling before the Mirror from behind and simply wrung his neck with bare hands; he was now on a windowsill, clearly about to escape, which Eornis had no intention of stopping. She smirked: the esteemed clofoel of Tranquility had released the Troll and imprudently looked away, while I had no time to do anything. It happened so fast, esteemed Members of the Council! I am eternally grateful to the late clofoel: had he not volunteered to accompany me, undoubtedly I would have been dead…
Kumai had only a split second to sweep his gaze over the amazing panorama of the Elvish capital while taking his last step; all those towers and suspension bridges fell on him like a theatrical decoration while six-sided flagstones raced at him. His last thought was: what if those bastards piece me together again?..
Perhaps they would have (who really knows the limits of the Elves' power?), but they had no time left for that or anything else. The sun was already at zenith, so Eornis took the palantír out of its protective silver-shot sack and brought it right next to the maddened Mirror, which looked fit to gallop away on its bent little legs. After waiting the prescribed time, the clofoel of the World brought together the two orange sparks within the magic crystal, thus switching it to 'send-receive' mode…
Chapter 67
Arnor, the Tower of Amon Súl – Mordor, western edge of Orodruin
August 1, 3019 of the Third Age, a quarter-hour before noon
"Hold it!" Gandalf ordered in a voice hoarse with strain, as if he was supporting an immense weight – which he was, no matter that the weight was not a physical one. All the four wizards of the White Council were totally exhausted, sweat rolling down their wax-like faces as they were ready to collapse. This job really took a pentagram, but their numbers only sufficed for a square… ah, Saruman, Saruman!
A huge map of Middle Earth, drawn somewhat schematically but with careful attention to scale and orientation right on the flagstones, took up the entire floor. A palantír rested in its middle, which corresponded to Arnor, casting flashes of colored light – yellow, blue, greenish – haphazardly in all directions. The efforts of the White Wizards were not in vain, though – slowly the flashes merged into a steady emanation which then separated