The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [21]
"Field Medic Second Class Haladdin and Sergeant Tzerlag of the Cirith Ungol Rangers. Although it doesn't matter now."
"Why not?" the lieutenant raised an eyebrow. "Quite a distinguished regiment. If I remember correctly, we met last fall at Osgiliath – the men of Ithilien were defending the southern flank then. By the fist of Tulkas, it was an excellent battle!"
"I'm afraid that now is not the best time to reminisce about those knightly exploits – we're interested in more recent events. What team had massacred this camp? Name of commanding officer, number, task, direction of movement? And no fooling: we're not inclined to dither, as you may guess."
The baron shrugged: "Quite legal questions. The company is made up of Easterling mercenaries commanded by Eloar, an Elf; as I understand it, he's a relative of some Lórien ruler. Number: nine people. Their task is roving patrol of a stretch of desert next to the highway and mop-up of said territory as a counter-insurgency measure. Are you satisfied?"
Haladdin closed his eyes involuntarily and once again saw a toy bactrian made of woolen threads, trampled into a pool of coagulated blood. So that's what they call it: 'mopping up territory.' Good to know.
"So how did you end up in the regrettable position in which we found you, Baron?"
"I'm afraid that it's such an unlikely story that you will not believe me."
"Then I will tell you myself. You have attempted to stop this 'mop-up' and wounded one of the mercenaries, perhaps even killed one. Correct?"
The Gondorian looked at them in obvious consternation. "How the hell do you know that?"
"That's not important. Strange behavior for a lieutenant of Gondor, though."
"It's proper behavior for a soldier and a gentleman," the prisoner replied drily. "I hope that
you will not view my accidental admission as an attempt to plead for my life."
"Oh, don't worry, Baron. I believe that the sergeant and I owe you at least a partial payment on this debt; looks like it's our turn to behave foolishly…" He looked back at the Orocuen; the latter hesitated, but then gestured acceptance: do as you think best.
"Forgive my not-so-idle curiosity: what will you do if we set you free?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure. Here, in Mordor, if the Elves capture me they will finish what Eloar's men started, even if not in such an exotic manner. There's nothing to come back to in Gondor: my King is dead, and I do not intend to serve his murderer and usurper..."
"What do you mean, Baron? We had no news since Pelennor."
"Denethor died a horrible death; supposedly he immolated himself on a funeral pyre. The very next day there was a ready claimant to the throne. You see, there's an old legend, which no one has taken seriously before, that the ruling Anarion dynasty is only taking care of the throne for the descendants of the mythical Isildur. Such a descendant has shown up – one Aragorn, of the northern rangers. To prove his dynastic rights he produced a sword, supposedly the legendary Andúril, although who had ever seen this Andúril? He also performed several healings by laying of hands, although all those healed were from among his northern followers… Prince Faramir, the heir apparent, retired to Ithilien and is supposedly a prince there under the eye of Captain Beregond – the same one who confirmed Denethor's 'self-immolation.'"
"And no one in the West objected to all this?"
"Aragorn's Secret Guard – rumor has it that they're all living dead, animated by Elvish magic – had quickly taught Gondorians not to ask such questions. As for Éomer, they get whatever they want from him, which is not surprising, since his sister is under guard with Faramir in Ithilien. Actually, it appears that Aragorn himself is an Elvish puppet, and the real ruler of Gondor is Arwen – his wife from Lórien."
"What about our home, Mordor?"
"Barad-Dur has been razed to the ground. The Elves are now forming a kind