The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [57]
That same evening the first crime occurred in the Settlement – arson. Some idiot fired – no, not the house of a successful romantic rival, nor the warehouse of an innkeeper who refused to pour him one on credit, nor the hayloft of a haughty neighbor. Rather, someone burned down the pigeon coop belonging to a grim single blacksmith who had moved here from Anfalas and apparently have kept some city habits. The blacksmith loved his pigeons beyond all else, and promised a silver mark to whoever would lead him to the arsonist. The local police, in the persons of two White Company sergeants, turned the neighborhood upside down: knowing the mores of the Anfalasians, it was a safe bet that if the guilty party were not jailed quickly, very soon they would have to investigate a premeditated murder.
Faramir listened to this crazy story with an eyebrow raised high – he was very surprised. More precisely, he really was surprised. There were only two possibilities: either the foe had made his first major blunder, or, conversely, he has figured out the prince's entire plan. Either way the Game has begun; it has begun earlier than he expected and not how he expected, but there was no turning back.
Chapter 23
Mountains of Shadow, Hotont pass
May 12, 3019
"There's your Ithilien." The mountain Troll put down the sack and pointed forward, where the thick chaparral of low scrub oak piled up in the gorge below like dense clouds of lightgreen smoke. "I can go no further, but you won't get lost, the path is well-trod. You'll hit a stream in about an hour; the ford is a bit downstream. Looks scary, but it's fine to cross. The thing there is not to be scared and step right into the eddies, that's where the water is calmest. Just re-pack and go."
"Thank you, Matun!" Haladdin firmly shook the guide's shovel-wide hand. The Troll resembled a bear in both looks and demeanor: a good-natured placid honey-eater capable of turning, in a blink of an eye, into a deadly fighting machine fearsome even more in its swiftness and cunning than in its monstrous strength. The bulbous nose, the unkempt red beard, the expression of a yokel who just saw a carnival magician pull a gold coin out of his ear – all these concealed an excellent warrior, both skilled and ruthless. Looking at him, Haladdin always recalled what he had heard once: peaceful family men make the best fighters – when a man like this one, coming home from work one day, finds nothing but charred bones in the ruins of his home.
He glanced once again at the snowy masses of the Mountains of Shadow looming over them – not even Tzerlag would have been able to get their company through all these ice pools, vertical moss-covered walls and vast rhododendron-covered slopes.
"When you get back to the base, please take care to remind Ivar to meet us in this same place in July."
"No worries, buddy: the chief never forgets anything. We have an agreement, so we'll be here through last week of July come hell or high water."
"Right. And if we're not here by August first, drink one to the rest of our souls."
In parting, Matun slapped Tzerlag's shoulder so that he barely kept his feet: "Be well, scout!" He and the Orocuen had become fast friends during the last few days. Of course, he did not even nod at Tangorn; had he only leave to do what he wanted to this Gondorian dude… Whatever, the officers know better. He had fought in Ivar the Drummer's guerilla band since the beginning of the occupation and knew full well that one is supposed to wait for a scouting team's return at the rendezvous point for no more than three days, and here the orders were for a full week! A mission of special importance, see? So the Gondorian dude must not be here just for