The Last Ringbearer (21 page)

“… And remember, Sergeant: no killing when taking down sentries and such! Treat this as a war game.”

“Very nice! Do those guys understand it’s a war game?”

“I hope so.”

“Understood. I guess they’ll hang me with a pretend rope if it comes to that …”

They say that there are werewolves-
nin’yokve
in the countries of the Far East – a fearsome clan of super-spies and super-assassins capable of mutating into animals internally, while keeping their human appearance. Turning into a gecko, a
nin’yokve
can climb a smooth wall against all laws of physics, slither into any crack after turning into a snake, and should the guards catch up with him, he turns into a bat and flies away. Tzerlag had never had any
nin’yokve
skills (despite Tangorn’s possible suspicions), but the recon squad leader of the Cirith Ungol Rangers knew quite a few tricks involving no magic.

In any event, by the time the White Company soldiers have been roused and took their positions in the courtyard, he had already scaled one of the outside galleries and was now working on its lock, trading the grapple for other tools. The sergeant did not have the skills of a real burglar, but he did know a few things about metalworking, and as he remembered from last year, any lock in Emyn Arnen could be opened with a pocketknife and a couple of pieces of wire. Several minutes later he was gliding noiselessly through the dark and empty corridors (all the Whites are outside – very convenient!); the Orocuen had admirable visual memory and spatial orientation skills, but he saw that finding the Prince’s bedchamber in this three-dimensional maze was not going to be easy.

Freezing before every corner, zooming through open spaces like a lightning, taking stairs sideways lest a step creak when trod in the middle, Tzerlag had covered about a third of the way when his inner sentry, which was the only reason he had survived those years, moved its icy hand along his spine:
beware
! He immediately flattened against the wall and slowly moved sideways toward a bend in the corridor about a dozen yards ahead. He could see no one behind him, but the feeling of danger was still close and very clear; when the sergeant had made it past the helpful turn, he was sweating profusely. He crouched and carefully extended a pocket mirror past the corner, almost at floor level – the corridor was still empty. He waited for a few minutes with no changes, and then he felt clearly: the danger receded, he could not feel it any more. This did not calm him at all; he moved forward even more cautiously and ready for the worst.

When Cheetah caught a fast-moving shadow in the corner of his eye, he plastered himself against the wall in exactly the same manner and cursed inwardly: they missed the intruder after all, the damned drones! The captain’s position was not that great: only three sentries to cover the entire huge building – one guarding Faramir and Éowyn, another by Beregond, the third at the entrance to the cellar. Go get help from outside? The intruder might let the prince out in the meantime, and the two of them will screw things up royally. Sound an alarm? No good: the intruder will vanish into this cursed maze and get ready for battle, so the only way to take him would be with quite a few holes in him, which is highly undesirable. Yes, looks like the only real option is to follow the guest and take him down personally, hand-to-hand, something Cheetah knew very well indeed.

Once he made the decision, Cheetah suddenly felt the rush of long-forgotten joyous excitement, for what is more exquisite fun than hunting an armed man? He froze in amazement, listening to himself: yes, there was no doubt – he was feeling an emotion! So this process has a certain order to it, then. He had his memory back first (although he still could not remember what happened to him before he found himself in the second rank of the gray phalanx marching across the Pelennor Fields), then he regained the ability to make his own decisions, then he could once again feel pain and weariness, and now the emotions were back. I wonder if I will be able to feel fear, too? At this rate I might become human again, he chuckled to himself. All right, I have work to do.

Naturally, he did not go into the corridor the intruder had taken; quite possibly he had seen him, too, and was now waiting behind the next corner. Much better to make use of being the master here and being able to move much faster than the foe: no need to freeze and listen by every corner. I can go around and still be there first. Where’s there? If the guest is moving towards Faramir’s room (where else?), then I should meet him at the Two Stairs Landing – he can’t avoid it, and I will have at least three minutes to prepare.

As he expected, the counter-intelligence chief was the first at the landing; he took off his cloak and started painstakingly setting up the trap. I must morph into my quarry; so – if he’s not a leftie, he’ll be moving along the left wall. Would I look at the spiral staircase that will suddenly appear on the right? Yes, definitely. Then I will be with my back to this niche? Precisely. What a beautiful niche – even up close it’s hard to believe that it can hold anything bigger than a broom. Here, let’s extinguish this lamp, so it’s more in the shadow … wonderful, all set, that’s where I’ll stand. Now: I’m here, he’s there, two yards off and facing away. Sword hilt to the back of the head? Damn, don’t feel like it … not sure why, but intuition says no, gotta listen to intuition in this business. Hands, then – a chokehold? Right hand grabs the hair at the nape, pull down to raise the chin, a simultaneous kick to the knee, left arm to the exposed throat. Reliable, but possibly lethal, and corpses don’t talk much.
Hadaka-jime
, then, but for that it’s preferable that he expose his throat himself – say, by looking up. How can we make him look up? Think, Cheetah, think …

When Tzerlag reached the dim weirdly shaped widening of the corridor at the end of which he could discern stairs going left, the premonition of danger returned with such force that he almost became dizzy: the unknown foe was somewhere very close. He watched and listened for minute – nothing; moved forward slowly, step by tiny step, noiselessly (damn, maybe to hell with their orders, get out the scimitar?) and froze: a large opening appeared on the right, with a spiral staircase through it, and there was definitely something behind those stairs. He glided by the left wall, his eyes on the opening – who the hell’s there? – and stopped, almost laughing out loud. Whew! It’s just a sword, leaned against the wall behind the stairs by one of the Whites. A strange place to keep a personal weapon, though. Maybe it’s not leaned, actually – judging by the angle, it might’ve slipped down from upstairs. By the way, what’s that there on the top step? …

Tzerlag’s inner sentry yelled:
behind you
! only a split second before the foe’s hands locked around his neck. The sergeant only had time to flex his neck muscles. Moving precisely, like in training, Cheetah grabbed his throat with the crook of the right elbow, then the counter-spy’s right hand locked on his left bicep, while the left pushed against the back of his neck, crushing throat cartilage and pinching the carotid artery.
Hadaka-jime
– unbreakable stranglehold. Game over.

CHAPTER 28

B 
anal though it sounds, everything has its price. The price of a warrior is the amount of time and money (which are really the same thing) it takes to train, arm, and equip another one to replace him. It makes no sense to increase the cost of training beyond a certain threshold (peculiar to every epoch) where a basic competency is achieved, since total imperviousness is anyway impossible. What good does it do to spend the effort to turn a regular infantryman into a first-class fencer when this will not save him from a crossbow bolt or, worse, a bout of wasting diarrhea?

For example, take hand-to-hand combat. It is a very useful skill, but attaining perfection takes years of constant training, whereas a soldier, to put it mildly, has plenty of other responsibilities. There are several options here; the Mordorian army approach was to teach only about a dozen techniques, but to teach those twelve combinations of movements almost down to the level of kneejerk reflex. Of course, it is impossible to foresee all eventualities, but the method for breaking a rear stranglehold is definitely among the said dozen techniques.

Step one! – a swift heel-tapping move back; stomp heel into the top of the opponent’s foot, crushing its bird-thin bones encased in myriads of nerve endings. Step two! – bend the knees, with a small turn of thighs slide out of the grip suddenly weakened by horrible pain, down and slightly to the right, until there is room to drive the left elbow into his groin. Once the foe’s hands drop to his hammered genitals, there are a few options available; for example, Tzerlag’s step-three training had been to smash open palms over the opponent’s ears: burst eardrums and a guaranteed knock-out. This ain’t no exquisite ballet of the far-eastern martial arts, where the hieroglyphs of the positions are but notation marks for the music of the Higher Spheres; no, this is Mordorian hand-to-hand combat, where everything is simple and to the point.

First he knelt and pulled up the eyelid of the feisty White Company sergeant (good, the pupil is reacting, Grager’s order had not been violated), and only then allowed himself to lean against the wall in momentary exhaustion. Squeezing eyes shut, he forced himself to swallow against the pain: thank the One, the throat is intact. What if the guy had a garrote? That would’ve been it, for sure. How did I screw up so badly? More importantly, how did he figure me out? Wait, this means that they’ll be expecting me at Faramir’s door, too …

The Dúnadan sentry in the corridor leading to the Prince’s bedchamber heard heavy dragging footfalls on the stairs. A rustle, a muffled moan, then quiet … unsure footfalls again … He quickly backed into the corridor and drew his sword, ready to sound the alarm at any moment. The soldier was ready for anything, but when he saw Cheetah appear at the end of the corridor, bent over double and leaning on the wall, his jaw dropped. Sword at the ready, the sentry moved forward and quickly scanned the stairs which the captain just ascended – nothing; Great Manwe, who did this to him? Poison, maybe? Meanwhile, the captain lost what strength he still had, slid slowly down the wall and was motionless, head down and still holding his belly; it was evident that he had walked the last few steps already only half-conscious, on autopilot. The Dúnadan looked at Cheetah with a mix of amazement, fear, and – let’s be honest – some glee. The vaunted Secret Guard! Homegrown
nin’yokve
, right … He looked at the stairs where the captain straggled from once more time and crouched down to examine the wounded man.

Weird, but when the hood covering Cheetah’s face fell back, the soldier’s first thought was that the enigmatic almighty chief of counter-intelligence had for some reason known only to him decided to turn into an Orc. That was his first absurd thought and he had no time for a second one: the ‘tiger’s paw’ strike which Tzerlag had chosen for this occasion is very effective, especially when administered from down up; nothing more was necessary. Pretty cruel treatment, no doubt, but there was no ban on injuries, only on killing; maybe we’re playing a war game, but dammit, it still isn’t a picnic! After a perfunctory search of the sentry (no keys, but Tzerlag was not really expecting any), the sergeant retrieved the pack he had left under the stairs, fished out his goodies and got started on the lock.

Pulling up the too-long sleeves of Cheetah’s jacket, he mused as he worked: to think that we made it through the entire war without this, but now I had to lose my innocence.
Laws and Customs of War
, paragraph two – using the enemy’s uniform or medical symbols. This rates an instant hanging on the nearest tree, and rightly so, by the by. Well, it’ll come in handy now – better to show up at the prince’s as a familiar jailer, rather than some Orc. Aha! Here’s what I’m gonna do: put the hood down again and hand him Grager’s paper without a word. The lock finally gave way, and Tzerlag breathed easier: halfway done! He had worked on the lock kneeling, and opened the door from that position, before standing up. That was what saved him – otherwise not even the Orocuen’s lightning reflexes would have been enough to block Faramir’s strike.

It is fairly easy, obvious even, to hit a man entering a room from behind a doorpost (provided that it juts far enough from the wall), but there is a catch. A man best perceives whatever is happening at his eye level, so if you decide to hammer the visitor on the head with something like a chair leg, your move will surprise only a total amateur. This is why people in the know (such as the prince) do not go for brute strength. Instead, they crouch and strike horizontally rather than vertically. The blow, as mentioned, comes out weaker, but it hits right where it counts; most importantly, it is exceedingly difficult to react to.

Faramir’s script for the next scene was as follows: once Cheetah (or whoever enters first) bends over with pain, the prince would pull him into the room, beyond the left doorpost. Éowyn, standing by the right doorpost behind the opened door, would shut and lean on it with all her weight. Those left outside would immediately try to break in, but their first attempt would likely be disorganized, giving the girl a good chance to hold it for a few seconds. Those few seconds should be enough for Faramir to knock Cheetah out and grab his weapon. Éowyn would jump aside then; those assaulting the door would by then get organized enough to slam into it together – “on my mark!” – and tumble into the room, possibly falling over. Faramir would immediately stab one of them – for real, no more joking around. This would likely leave no more than two Whites standing, and since the prince is one of the top twenty swords of Gondor, the Ithilien royal couple’s chances range from pretty good to excellent should Éowyn manage to grab another sword. Then they would change into White Company uniforms and try to sneak out of the fort.

This plan had some weak spots (mostly where coordinated action was concerned), but overall it was pretty good, especially considering that its primary objective was death with dignity, with escape to freedom a possible bonus. However, as already mentioned, the Orocuen was still kneeling when he opened the door, so Faramir’s first blow hit him in the chest and he managed to put up a block. Amazed by the prisoner’s perceptiveness – just imagine recognizing an Orc under a White Company sergeant’s hood! – Tzerlag somersaulted back into the corridor, but by the time he got to his feet Faramir was already out of the room and had cut off his retreat, while the prince’s improvised club was a whirl of wood that was impossible to block. And when a moment later that blond wildcat slipped behind his back – well, then the sergeant was reduced to rolling around on the floor at their feet, dodging blows and calling out in the most undignified manner: “Friendly, friendly, Prince! I’m with Grager and Tangorn! Dammit, stop already!”