The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [62]
However, the next day they had another task: the long-awaited guide finally turned up, and off they went to conquer Hotont. It was the second week of May, but the pass still hadn't opened up. The company was thrice hit by blizzards, and only the sleeping bags made from thickhorn skins saved them; once, after spending a day and a half in an igloo that Matun fashioned from quickly cut bricks of thick firn, they barely managed to dig themselves out. In Haladdin's memory the whole trek was one thick, glutinous nightmare. Oxygen deprivation had weaved a curtain of tiny crystal bells all around him – after every move all he wanted to do was to sink down in the snow and listen blissfully to their hypnotic tinkling. It is not said for naught that freezing to death is the best way to go. The only time he broke out of that half-dream was when a huge furry figure appeared from nowhere on another side of a gorge about half a mile from where they were – a cross between an ape and a rearing bear. The creature moved awkwardly but preternaturally fast, disappearing amidst the boulders at the bottom of the gorge without paying any attention to them. That was the only time he had ever seen a scared Troll, something he thought impossible. "Matun, what was that?" The guide only waved a hand, as if warding against the Enemy: it's gone, and that's good enough… So now they are walking a nice path amongst the oaks of Ithilien, enjoying the birdsongs, while Matun is going back, alone, through all those screes and firn fields.
…That same evening they reached a clearing where a dozen men were putting up a stockade around a couple of unfinished houses. Seeing them, they all grabbed their bows and the leader told them in a serious voice to put down their arms and approach slowly with hands up. Tangorn approached and informed them that their company was heading to Prince Faramir himself. The men shared glances and inquired whether the newcomer was from the Moon or an insane asylum. The baron looked closer at one of the builders, who was sitting at the top of a house astride a roof beam, and laughed heartily:
"Well, well, Sergeant! Nice welcome you have for your commanding officer!"
"Guys!!" yelled the man, almost tumbling off his perch. "May my eyes never see if it ain't Lieutenant Tangorn! Sorry, sir, we didn't recognize you; you look, you know… Hey, now we're all back together, so we'll do that White Company like…" and, elated, he aimed an expressive obscene gesture towards Emyn Arnen.
Chapter 25
Ithilien, Blackbird Hamlet
May 14, 3019
"…So you just announced it to the entire Emyn Arnen: 'merry men from the Blackbird Hamlet?'"
"What else could I do – wait for the Eternal Fire to freeze? Both the Prince and the girl can only leave the fort with a White Company bodyguard, can't exactly talk with those guys present…"
The wick of an oil lamp on the edge of a rough wooden table cast fitful light on the speaker's face. It was swarthy and predatory, like that of a mashtang bandit from the caravan trails south of Anduin; no wonder that its owner used to be equally comfortable in Khand caravanserais among bactrian drivers, smugglers, and lice-infested loudmouth dervishes, and in Umbar port dives of rather ill repute. It was Baron Grager many years ago who taught the newbie Tangorn in his first foray beyond the Anduin both the basics of intelligence work and, perhaps more importantly, the many Southern peculiarities without knowing which one will always remain a greengo, a permanent target of digs large and small from every Southerner, from a street boy to a palace courtier.
The master of Blackbird Hamlet reached questioningly towards the jug of wine, caught Tangorn's barely discernible 'no' gesture and obligingly moved it aside. The emotional encounter of two old friends was over; they were at work now.
"How quickly did you get in touch?"
"Nine days.