The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [75]
Chapter 29
Cutting off the Dúnadan's yell with one short chop (the man did not even moan – just sagged to the floor like a sack of meal), the Orocuen turned to Faramir and addressed a few choice words to His Highness, the mildest of which was 'damn idiot.' His Highness took it in stride; it was he who was suddenly overcome with sentimentality and tried to simply scare the sentry, rather than knock him out, as Tzerlag insisted. As usual, humanism only made things worse: the soldier got his predestined share of bruises and internal injuries anyway, but all for naught. Their situation seemed hopeless now.
In any case, there was no time to decide fault. Tzerlag instantly ripped off the sentry's black cloak, tossed it to just-arrived Éowyn and snarled, pointing at the cellar door: "Stand there, both of you! Swords at the ready!" while he swiftly dragged the Dúnadan to the center of the hall. The six soldiers who burst in a few seconds later found the leftovers of a very recent fight: the sentries at the cellar door stood ready to handle any further attack, while another Dúnadan was motionless on the floor; the sergeant kneeling by his side barely glanced at them, pointed imperatively towards the south stair and again bent over the wounded man. The soldiers ran where they were told to go, boots thundering, almost kicking the Orocuen with their scabbards. The group had a break of a few seconds.
"Shall we fight our way to the stockade?" The prince was clearly looking for a nice quick way to lose his head.
"No, stick to the original plan." Tzerlag got out his tools and began studying the lock.
"But they'll immediately know what we're doing!"
"Yep…" The pick went into the keyhole and began feeling out the pins.
"So what then?"
"Three guesses, philosopher!"
"Fight?"
"Good boy! I'll be working and you'll be protecting me – just as our estates are supposed to do…"
Despite everything, the prince laughed: this guy was definitely to his liking. Right then, there was no time for laughing any more. The brief respite ended the way it had to: two confused Dúnadans came back down the south stair – who are we hunting, Sergeant? – and three real White Company sergeants appeared in the door. Those twigged to the situation right away and yelled: "Freeze! Drop your weapons!" and everything else one is supposed to yell in such circumstances.
Tzerlag kept working on the lock with great concentration, detachment even, ignoring everything happening behind his back. The conversation that started up was totally predictable: "Surrender your sword, Your Highness!" "Try taking it!" "Hey, who's over there – come here!" He only glanced back, and then only for a moment, when the crossing blades first rang out above his head. Immediately the three White sergeants fell back; one of them, grimacing with pain, was carefully hugging his right hand under his arm, and his weapon was on the floor – the 'magic circle' erected by Faramir's and Éowyn's swords performed flawlessly so far. The prince, in turn, had no chance to glance back – the halfcircle of Whites, bristling with steel, was drawing close, like a pack of wolves around a deer – but a short time later he heard a metallic click and then Tzerlag's strange chuckle.
"What's happening, Sergeant?"
"Everything's fine, but just imagine this picture: the crown prince of Gondor and the sister of the King of Rohan are covering some Orc's back with their lives…"
"Indeed it's funny. How's it going?"
"All set." Behind them, there was a creak of rusted hinges and a whiff of musty cold. "I'm going in; hold the door until my word."
Meantime, the Whites have erected quite a barrier around them and froze. The prince clearly discerned growing confusion in their actions: where the hell is Cheetah and the rest of the commanders? Nevertheless, he was sure that those surrounding them were not attacking only because they were unaware of the tunnel's existence. Finally, a private with a white band on his arm showed up and gave the prince a ceremonious