The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [22]
"What about your people?"
"I think that our turn will come, but for now they need us."
Tzerlag broke the ensuing silence. "All right. First we need to finish burying the people of this camp. After that you can do whatever, but I intend to collect a debt from this – what's his name? – Eloar. The owner of the blue yurt was my aunt twice-removed, so it's a blood feud now."
"May I join you, Sergeant?" Tangorn asked unexpectedly, and explained to the puzzled Orocuen: "They took my sword, a family heirloom. It would be nice to get the Slumbermaker back; besides, I would rather like to send these guys my regards from beyond the grave."
The scout studied the Gondorian directly for some time, then nodded: "Tangorn… I do remember you from Osgiliath last year. It was you that took down Detz-Zeveg, the 'King of the Spearmen.'"
"Right, I have had this honor."
"The only thing is, we don't have a sword to fit you. Ever use a scimitar?"
"I'll figure it out somehow."
"All right, then."
Chapter 11
Mordor, near the Old Núrnen Highway
Night of April 11, 3019
"Where have you studied languages, Baron?"
"Well, I've spent over six years in Umbar and Khand, if that's what you mean, but I've started at home. Prince Faramir – we're childhood friends – has an excellent library, mostly in Eastern languages, of course; could I let it go unused? That's why I'm here in Mordor, actually – I wanted to sift through the wreckage. Put together a whole bag of books; those guys took it, by the way, together with the Slumber-maker," Tangorn nodded towards the double-crested dune, where darkness hid Eloar's camped company, tracked by Tzerlag. "Among other things I've found a loose page of excellent verse I haven't seen before:
I swear by near and by far,
I swear by sword and fight that's fair,
I swear by the morning star
I swear by the evening prayer…
Would you happen to know the author?"
"That's Saheddin. Strictly speaking, he's a wizard and an alchemist, not a poet. He publishes verse from time to time, and claims that he's only a translator of texts created in other worlds. You're right, the poetry's great."
"Damn, but that's a cute idea! For sure one can describe the World in a myriad ways, but a true poetic text where you can't change a single letter has to be the most precise and economical one, and universal for that reason alone! If there is anything in common between various worlds, it has to be poetry… and music, of course. Such texts must exist before us, written into the very fabric of what Is and what Could Be by the sound of a seashell, the pain of unrequited love, the smell of spring forest – one must only learn to perceive them… Poets do this intuitively, but what if this Saheddin discovered a formal method for doing so? Why not?"
"Right, something like modern geology to look for ores, rather than unreliable guesses of the diviners. So you, too, think that the World is Text?"
"My world certainly is, but that's a matter of taste."
Yeah, the World is Text, thought Haladdin. Wouldn't it be nice to someday read the paragraph describing how one day I will join two likeable professional killers – what else are they? – to hunt nine subhumans – why, how are those different from all the others? – and will conduct a profound discussion of poetry right before the battle, to control the taste of copper in my mouth and the disgusting feeling of cold fear at the pit of my stomach? Truly, the author of such a text has a great imagination and a great future.
His musings were interrupted when a bright double star above the dune hiding them blinked as if obscured by a bird of the night. So this is it… would that he could have a stiff drink right now… He rose into a crouch and began stuffing his weapons for tonight – a short Orocuen bow of unfamiliar construction