The book still wasnt published in USA but the fans did translate it and published on the internet. It is avaible for non - commercial distribution only, so I wont break any law if give here some excerpts:
Chapter 5
Middle Earth, the War of the Ring
Historical brief
Should our reader be minimally acquainted with analysis of major military campaigns and examine the map of Middle Earth, he would easily ascertain that all actions of both new coalitions (Mordor-Isengard and Gondor-Rohan) were dictated by merciless strategic logic, undergirded by Mordorâs dread of being cut off from its food sources. Through Gandalfâs efforts the center of Middle Earth turned into a highly unstable geopolitical âsandwichâ with Mordor and Isengard the bread and Gondor and Rohan the bacon. Most ironic was the fact that the Mordor coalition, which wanted nothing but the preservation of the status quo, was in an ideal position for an offensive war (whereby it could immediately force its opponents to fight on two fronts), but in a highly unfavorable one for a defensive war (when the united opponents could conduct a blitzkrieg, crushing foes one by one).
Saruman, however, lost no time, either. He visited Theoden and Denethor (the kings of Rohan and Gondor) and used his personal charm and eloquence to convince them that Isengard and Barad-Dur wanted nothing but peace. In addition, he partially revealed to Denethor and Sauron the secret of the two palantĂri that have been kept in both capitals since time immemorial, and taught them to use those ancient magic crystals as a means of direct communication; this simple move did much to build trust between the neighboring sovereigns. An Isengard consulate was established in Edoras at King Theodenâs court; it was headed by Grima, an excellent diplomat, experienced intelligence officer, and master of courtly intrigue. For quite some time Saruman and Gandalf carefully jockeyed for position, strictly in the area of dynastic relationships.
To wit, Theodenâs only son Theodred, known for his sober mind and temperateness, was killed in the North under suspicious circumstances, allegedly in an Orc raid. As a result, the new heir was the kingâs nephew Ăomer â a brilliant general, the darling of the officer corps, and, obviously, one of the âwar partyâ leaders. In a setback to Gandalf, however, he began âmeasuring the drapes of the palaceâ way too openly with his friends. Grima, who had an excellent intelligence network, had no trouble putting together a good collection of all the drunken boasts and submitting it to Theoden through a proxy. Consequently, Ăomer was excluded from active politics to such an extent that Grima stopped paying any attention to him (which turned out later to have been a big mistake). In Gondor, Saruman succeeded in undermining the position of Prince Boromir, another well-known brawler, and getting him removed from court; the prince left in a huff, seeking adventure in northern lands (with rather unpleasant consequences, but again later). In general, the first round went to Saruman.
Nevertheless, although all three kings clearly understood that âa bad peace is better than a good war,â conditions remained highly unstable. The food situation in Mordor continued to deteriorate, so the security of the trade routes to the South through Ithilien became what is known as a ânational paranoia.â In such circumstances the smallest provocation can cascade, and there was no lack of those. So after several caravans in a row were wiped out near Ithilien Crossing by people who came from nowhere but wore green cloaks of Gondor (although they spoke with a pronounced Northern accent), there was a full-fledged reaction.
Saruman immediately contacted Sauron via his palantĂr; he cajoled, pleaded, and threatened, but to no avail. Logical arguments did not work any more, and the king, whose power had always been rather nominal, could do nothing about the fear-crazed merchants sitting in the parliament. So it was that on the morrow of April 14th, 3016 of the Third Era the army of Mordor, two hundred light cavalry strong, entered the demilitarized (under a recent treaty with Gondor) Ithilien âto provide security against robbers to the trade routes.â In response, Gondor mobilized its army and took control of Osgiliath. The trap was sprung. Mordor then made another mistake, although, as it always is with strategic decisions, they can only be judged post factum: had the move worked, as it had every chance of doing, it would no doubt have been recorded as brilliant. An attempt was made to split the enemy coalition by getting Rohan out of the spat over Ithilien, which was of no real concern to them. To that end, four best battalions of Mordorâs army were sent over Anduin. This expeditionary force was supposed to covertly travel over the northern edge of the Plains of Rohan, where intelligence reported no regular armed presence, and join the army of Isengard. The risk was great, but smaller detachments have already traversed that route without incident. Indeed, had a strike force capable of reaching Edoras in five daysâ march been established in the Rohirrimâs backyard, without a doubt the latter would have concentrated on guarding the entrance to Helmâs Deep and abandoned any thought of a raid to the South. Mordor could then seek a compromise over Ithilien with the suddenly lonely Gondor.
That was when the Mirror first made a difference; imagine a contemporary fast-moving war in which one side has the advantage of space-based surveillance. Ăomer, practically under house arrest at the time, got comprehensive information about Mordorâs move from Gandalf, and realized that a general only gets such a chance once in a lifetime. Taking advantage of Theodenâs illness and his enormous popularity among the troops, he moved the elite Rohan army units north. At that point he had nothing to lose; failure would no doubt have cost him his head for treason.
But the Mirror spoke truly. Five days later the armored cavalry of Rohan suddenly struck Mordorâs expeditionary force out of Fangorn Wood; the enemy had no time to even break out of the marching formation. The swift attack was devastating; nevertheless, a significant part of the heavy infantry (mostly Trolls) did manage to form into its famous âgranite blocksâ and fought back for several hours, taking a large toll on the attackers. When night fell, they tried to move into Fangorn, hoping to escape the mounted pursuers in the thicket, but all fell to the poisoned arrows of the Elvish bowmen in their tree perches.
The Rohirrim paid dearly for their victory, but the elite of the Mordorian army was no more; only the light Orocuen cavalry managed to escape. Ăomer triumphantly returned to Edoras, and Theoden had to pretend that all was going according to a pre-existing plan. At the same time the king was publicly presented with evidence that the Isengard consul was spying on Rohan; although nearly all diplomats have been doing so since the world was created, Theoden now had to support the war party and had no choice but to declare Grima a persona non grata.
In the meantime, Rohan troops, still drunk with the Fangorn victory, filled up the palace square, clanging swords against shields, and demanded of their beloved Ăomer that he lead them, no matter where. The general raised his sword high, as if to stab the setting sun, and cried: âTo Isengard!â â whereupon Gandalf, standing not far away in the shadow of a battlement, knew that he had earned some rest. His work was done.
Chapter 6
In the South, meanwhile, a âstrange warâ went on. Although the Osgiliath Crossing had changed hands three times in two years, neither of the foes had made any attempts to follow up on their successes and take the fight to the other side of Anduin. The fighting consisted of a series of ânoble contestsâ â something between a gladiator show and a knightly joust.
The best warriors were known by name on both sides, and bets were made regardless of the personal allegiances of the bettors; the officers competed in civility and never failed to congratulate an opponent on his monarchâs birthday or some other state occasion before
running him through. The only dissonant note in this exalted symphony of courteous killing was sounded by the bands of DĂșnadan ârangersâ, gathered here like flies to carrion. Those mostly âharassed enemy communicationsâ â or, to put it plainly, robbed caravans. The Mordorians considered them bandits rather than enemy combatants, to be dealt with harshly in wartime, and hung not a few of those ârangersâ off the leafy oaks along the Ithilien highway. The Northerners paid back in the same coin when they could. No wonder that working men like Tzerlag saw this âwarâ as total baloney.
The Battle of Fangorn changed the situation drastically. Even prior to it the armies of Mordor and Isengard numbered no more than a third of the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan. After the task force perished, Mordor had no defensive strategies left; it had no chance of holding Ithilien with the forces it had. Sure, those were more than sufficient to hold the fastnesses in the passes of the Ash and Shadow Mountains, but what good was that? Gondor and Rohan had no need to storm those citadels; it was quite sufficient to simply establish a blockade and wait for Mordor to surrender or starve to death. The powers-thatbe in Barad-Dur considered the situation soberly and realized that they had only one chance to break this stranglehold.
While Isengard remains unconquered in Rohanâs rear, the Rohirrim will not risk moving their army to the southeast, beyond AnĂłrien. Although Isengardâs army is small, taking the city is no easy task, since primitive Rohan has no decent siege engines. Therefore, Mordor has some time, at least six months. Under cover of the low-grade war in Ithilien, this time must be used to gather all of the countryâs resources into a fist â muster all men, hire mercenaries, request assistance from allies (the Easterlings and especially the Haradrim). Then this entire force must suddenly crush Gondorâs army in a blitzkrieg while it is temporarily deprived of Rohanâs aid. Afterwards, Mordor will conclude the war quickly under the well-known âland for peaceâ scenario, keeping control of the Ithilien Crossing.
The risk is huge, but there is no other choice! The Mirror gave this plan a decent chance of success. Gandalf was extremely concerned, because the war in the northwest was not going as well as he expected. Ăomer made a quick march west and did manage to capture the strategically important Helmâs Deep after a bloody battle at Hornburg, breaking into Isenâs valley. But it was a pyrrhic victory; the attackersâ losses were such that there was no question of storming Isengard. The only option was a siege, which was what Mordor was counting on.
The Elves found a solution. When the Rohirrim approached Isengard, they were stunned to behold a large lake in its place; the Orthanc stuck out of its middle absurdly, like a log out of a swamp. The Elves had solved the problem radically by breaching the dams of the Isen the previous night, drowning the sleeping city with its defenders. Horrified Gandalf and hotly angry Ăomer (the riches of Isengard, which were the reason for this campaign, were now at the bottom of a lake) went to visit the Elves to settle a few things.
They came back after dark much subdued, silent, avoiding looking at each other. Surprised officers asked Ăomer whether they should celebrate victory; the general snapped:
âWhatever,â went to his tent and uncharacteristically drank himself into a stupor all alone.
Gandalf, for some reason of his own, hurried to Orthanc and tried to talk to Saruman; after
an icy rebuff he slumped listlessly at the waterâs edge, watching the moonâs reflection.
When all is said and done, the Elves are probably correct â the most important goal right now is to free up forces in the north and lead the Rohirrim south⊠But the Mirror⊠Was Saruman The Fastidious right back then?.. Better not to think about it, thereâs no way back now anyway⊠And that DĂșnadan ranger, whatâs his name? Aragorn? Arathorn? What do the Elves need him for, all of a sudden?
All the while the war in the south was picking up steam. Of course, it is impossible to hide troop movements on the scale of those started by Mordor from enemy intelligence, even if those did not possess the Mirror. Gondor also began moving its allied forces towards Minas Tirith from Anfalas, Ethir, and Dol Amroth, but Mordor deployed first. After a successful feint to the north (towards LĂłrien and further to Esgaroth) had tied up most of the Elvish army there, the main force of Mordorâs army slammed Gondor. Osgiliath was taken on the march; six days later, having overrun and scattered the more numerous but badly positioned units of the army of Gondor, the victorious South Army had camped with all of its siege engines at the walls of Minas Tirith, which was still unprepared for a siege. The formidable Pelennor fortifications have been stormed immediately prior to that in only a couple of hours. So when the palantĂr in Denethorâs quarters suddenly came to life and Sauron offered an immediate peace in exchange for Mordorâs right to maintain a limited military presence in Ithilien, the king agreed right away, reasoning quite correctly that he was getting a heifer for a chick. Then, something strange happened.
The next day a man in a white cloak appeared in Sauronâs palantĂr. Introducing himself as the military commandant of Minas Tirith, he said that the signing of the peace treaty will have to wait for a few days, due to a sudden illness of the king of Gondor.
Why isnât Prince Faramir conducting these negotiations? Oh, the prince is literally hovering between life and death, having been struck by a poisoned arrow.
What do you mean â âwhose?!â
The Mordorian army has no poisoned arrows? Really? Hmm⊠Honestly, he doesnât know. As for Prince Boromir, unfortunately, he is believed to have been killed somewhere in the North. In other words, letâs just wait a week or so, while the king gets better; yes, just a formality.
So the Mordorians waited. The war is over, soon weâll go home. Sure, discipline is important, but how about a little celebration of the victory, eh? After all, even if Isengard falls and the Rohirrim go south, Saruman will let us know, so even if worse comes to worse, there will be plenty of time to prepare a welcome party⊠Little did they know that Sarumanâs palantĂr was only silent because defecting Grima took it along as a âdowry,â and Rohanâs army was only a three daysâ march off.
Chapter 7
Gondor, the Field of Pelennor
March 15, 3019
The Mordorians only realized that they have been had when the brown splotch of Rohanâs army began spreading through the northern edge of the white fog blanketing the Field of Pelennor, while Gondorâs troops poured through the opened gates of Minas Tirith, quickly
congealing into battle formations. Fury tripled the strength of the duped âvictors;â they hit the Gondorians hard enough to send them flying before the Rohirrim made it to the battlefield, almost gaining the city gates in hot pursuit. The armored cavalry of Rohan, tired by the long march, did not live up to expectations; it turned out to be less than easily maneuverable, so light Orocuen cavalry calmly showered it with arrows, easily avoiding a head-on clash. Although the South Army of Mordor was outnumbered two to one and surprised to boot, the scales began tipping in its favor.
It was then that fresh forces landed in the Mordoriansâ rear at the southeast edge of the Pelennor field from ships that had just gone up the Anduin. The landed force was small, and the Mordorian commander did not pay much attention to the first panicked reports: âthose canât be killed!â In the meantime the battle intensified. On the northern edge of the field the Umbarian bowmen and deftly maneuvering Orocuen cavalry completely tied up the armor of Rohan; in the west the mĂ»makil of the Haradrim trampled and scattered Gondorian infantry once again, while the engineers smashed the famed (supposedly mithril) gates of the city to bits in less than ten minutes and began catapult bombardment of the inner ramparts.
Only in the southeast was something alarming happening: the troops that had landed from the ships were moving forward like a hot knife through butter. When the Commander-South got to the breakthrough, this was what he saw.
A phalanx six deep and about a hundred men across moved unhurriedly across the field in total silence. The warriors were dressed in gray cloaks with hoods covering their faces, and were armed only with long narrow Elvish swords; they had no armor, no helmets, not even shields. There was something weirdly out of place about the soldiers in the forward rank, and it took the commander a few seconds to understand what that was: they were literally studded with three-foot Umbarian arrows, but kept advancing just the same. They were commanded by a horseman in their rear, wearing a tattered camouflage cloak of a DĂșnadan ranger, his faceplate closed. The sun was almost directly overhead, yet the horseman cast a long coal-black shadow, while the phalanx cast no shadow at all.
An aide reported to Commander-South that neither cavalry nor the mĂ»makil were able to breach the ranks of those warriors; the animals became wildly uncontrollable on approach. In the meantime, the invincible phalanx kept pushing northwest â fortunately, rather slowly and too directly. The Trollish armored infantry managed to slow it down some while the engineers moved two batteries of field catapults from the walls of the city. The Commanderâs reckoning was precise: at the moment he anticipated the entire phalanx went into a large shallow depression, and the catapults placed on its edge opened up withering fire at pre-calculated distances and angles. The three-bucket naphtha bombs turned the hollow into an erupting volcano, and a victory cheer went up to the cold March sky.
It ceased just as quickly, for the ranks of the gray warriors emerged again out of the bursting bubbles of orange naphtha flames. Their cloaks were smoldering and smoking, some were ablaze; the shafts of the arrows studding them were burning, too. Here one of those living torches â the fourth from the right in the forward rank â halted and started breaking into pieces, raising a fountain of sparks; his mates immediately closed ranks. One could see that the bombardment had taken a toll on the grays: at least fifty such firebrands were scattered in the middle of the depression, where the brunt hit. Some of those kept trying to get up and walk.
The general slammed the pommel with his fist â let the pain bring him back to the real world and banish all traces of this nightmare from his brain⊠No such luck. He is still standing at the edge of a burned-out depression on the Pelennor field, and his warriors, ever ready to follow him into fire and water, will break into flight at any moment, for this is simply beyond their ken! Without thinking any more, he thundered: âMordor and The Eye!â and, scimitar raised high, spurred his horse towards the right flank of the gray ranks â for it was there that the closed-helmeted DĂșnadan has moved now, for some reason of his own.
When the Commander-South neared the phalanx, his mount reared and almost tossed him from the saddle. Now he could see the enemy warriors clearly and knew that the numerous âpanic-mongersâ were right. These were, indeed, the living dead: respectable-looking parchment-skinned mummies with eyes and mouths carefully sewn shut; horribly bloated drowned men dripping greenish goo; skeletons covered with tatters of blackened skin, cause of death now indeterminable to the best pathologist. The corpses stared at him, and a chillingly terrifying low growl went up; such is the growl of a sheepdog about to go for the enemyâs throat. The general had no time to be terrified, though â a dozen gray figures have already detached themselves from the rear right corner of the formation, clearly intending to block his way to the indecisively halted DĂșnadan, so he spurred the stallion again.
He broke through the line of the dead with surprising ease: they turned out to be rather slow and no match for a fighter of his caliber one-on-one. A hanged man with a lolling tongue and bulging eyes had barely raised his sword when Commander-South sliced through his sword-arm with a lighting-fast horizontal flick of his wrist and then cut the enemy almost in half from the right shoulder down. The others backed away for some reason and made no more attempts to stop him. Meanwhile the DĂșnadan was clearly deciding whether he should fight or run, and seeing that he had no chance of escaping, dismounted decisively and drew his Elvish sword. So thatâs how you want it, eh? Fight on foot â fine.
Shouting the traditional: âDefend yourself, fair sir!â the commander of the South Army jumped nimbly off his horse, thinking in passing that this northern bandit hardly deserved to be called âsir.â
The phalanx had already moved away a hundred yards or so and kept going; seven of the undead stood in the distance, not taking their unseeing eyes off the duelists; a ringing silence fell.
He suddenly realized with a clarity that amazed him that this one duel will determine the outcome not only of this battle, but the fate of entire Middle Earth for many years to come.
His inner voice then said in an eerily pleading tone: âThink this through, while thereâs still time! Please!â â as if trying to warn him without knowing how. But he had thought this through already! They are both lightly armored, so his curved scimitar will have a clear advantage over any straight western sword; the guy doesnât seem to be a leftie, so no surprises there; it wouldâve been better to fight on horseback, but letâs not be greedy⊠Itâs all set â ready to serve, as the saying goes!
The DĂșnadan awaited him without trying to maneuver: knees slightly bent, upraised sword held in both hands, hilt against the belt buckle; all his earlier indecisiveness was gone. The general quickly approached to within about seven paces, right up to the maximum reach of the northerner, and started feinting: right, left, then his favorite distracting move â a quick pass of the scimitar to the left hand and backâŠ
A terrible blow in the back felled him. He managed to twist sideways (âSpineâs still thereâŠâ), lifted his head and thought distantly: yes, I have underestimated those deaders⊠so they can move real fast and real silent when needed⊠northern bastard⊠Amazingly, he managed to get up to one knee, using the scimitar as a crutch; the corpses, having already surrounded him, stood still with swords raised, awaiting word from their commander. The latter was in no hurry; pushing the helmet to the back of his head and chewing on a straw, he gazed at his fallen foe with interest. Then his calm soft voice broke the silence:
âWelcome, Commander-South! I knew that you would come for a one-on-one fight, as is the custom by you nobles,â he smirked, âI was only concerned that you wouldnât dismount, like I did. Had you kept to the saddle, it all could have been different⊠Iâm glad that I didnât overestimate you, fair sir.â
âYou cheated.â
âYou fool! I came here to win this war and the crown of Gondor, not some stupid duel. As Tulkas is my witness, I have often played heads-or-tails with death, but always for a goal, never for the hell of it.â
âYou cheated,â repeated Commander-South, trying not to cough with the blood from his pierced lung slowly pooling in his mouth. âEven the knights of the North will not shake your hand.â
âOf course they wonât,â laughed the DĂșnadan, âsince they will be kneeling before the new King of Gondor! I beat you in an honest fight, one on one â so it shall be written in all the history books. As for you, they wonât even remember your name, Iâll make sure of that.
Actually,â he stopped in midstride, hunting for the stirrup, âwe can make it even more interesting: let you be killed by a midget, some tiny little dwarf with hairy paws. Or by a broad⊠yes, thatâs how weâll do it.â
He mounted quickly, gestured once to his dead men and set the horse to follow the distant phalanx. He turned back only once, checking in annoyance: are they catching up or what? The corpses, though, were still standing in a circle, their swords rising and falling like threshing flails.
Chapter 8
Meanwhile, the battle continued. True, the Mordorian troops now parted before the ranks of the undead without a fight, but there were no Western Coalition troops in the southeastern part of the battlefield to take advantage of the breach made by Aragorn. Besides, the clash at the depression had demonstrated that the gray warriors were not totally invincible; they were hard but not impossible to kill. The phalanx, without guidance for a few minutes, kept going forward until by sheer accident it wandered into the range of stationary long-range catapults trained on the citadel of Minas Tirith. The Mordorian engineers lost no time in
turning these around and opening fire, this time with forty-bucket naphtha incendiary barrels rather than three-bucket jars. Hit by monstrous fiery whirlwinds and not seeing the enemy (who was firing from a concealed position), the phalanx kept going forward mindlessly, getting deeper into the killing zone with every step, so that when Aragorn, catching up on a lathered horse, ordered an immediate retreat, it had to traverse the same deadly terrain a second time.
This time the losses were so great that the DĂșnadan decided to rejoin the main forces to the west before it was too late; that proved to be difficult. Now, Orocuen horsemen dogged the decimated phalanx like piranhas, expertly lassoing the undead, especially in the rear row, pulling them out of the ranks and dragging them away, where they methodically hacked the corpses into tiny pieces. Trying to rescue their captured comrades, the gray warriors had to break ranks, which made things all the worse for them. You have to give Aragorn his due: he managed to close the ranks and break through to the Gondorian side under cover of brief counterattacks, personally cutting down two Mordorian officers in the process. They had to cover the last hundred fifty yards under fire from portable catapults once again, so that only a few dozen living dead made it back to the Gondorians, almost inducing them to flee.
So Aragornâs gray phalanx almost completely perished, but it did its job. First, it had diverted substantial Mordorian forces, especially the catapults, without which the inner fortifications of Minas Tirith could not be taken. More importantly, after the death of Commander-South the South Army was deprived of overall direction and allowed itself to be drawn into head-to-head fighting for mutual annihilation â a losing proposition where the foe is so much more numerous. Nevertheless, the Mordorians kept fighting skillfully and determinedly; the March day was already failing, but the Coalition still hadnât managed to utilize its two-to-one advantage. The main action was in the northern direction, where
Trollish infantry and Umbarian bowmen managed to beat off the Rohirrimâs attempts to break through their defense line, despite large losses.
⊠Ăomer slowly made his way past the line of Rohan and Dol Amroth cavalry, just rolled back from another unsuccessful attack, the fourth one today. In reality, to call this gloomy crowd of men and horses, some wounded and all exhausted to the limit a âlineâ would be a stretch. He had been trying to straighten out the faceplate of his helmet, bent in by a Haradi club, when they informed him that Theoden was among those who perished in the last attack. After the victorious march on Isengard the old man was convinced that Ăomer was going to use his coming glory of the victor over Mordor to strip him of his crown, and watched his nephew with a hawkâs eye. That was why he headed the march to the southeast himself, and then stripped his most popular general of his command right before the battle.
The king was determined to win this one all by himself, âwithout the snot-nosed youths,â and so ignored all tactical advice and sacrificed the best of Rohanâs cavalry in senseless head-on attacks. Now he, too, was dead.
Ăomer, now in charge, gazed at the glum ranks of the Rohirrim, shivering in the brutal March wind. He felt like a physician who has been graciously allowed to treat the patient after the latter had already slipped into coma. The worst of it was that the army of Mordor was in the same shape, if not worse; experience and keen battle intuition of the general told him in no uncertain terms that one decisive assault could swing the battle now. He saw
clearly the weak spots in the enemyâs line and knew exactly where to strike and how to develop a successful breach, but he also knew that he dare not order his men forward. There is an unwritten law no one dares break: one may only give an order when heâs sure that itwill be followed, otherwise itâs the end of everything that sustains an army. He saw just as clearly that these men could not be roused for another attack, not today.
So he stopped his horse, ordered everyone to dismount â to be seen better by more men â and launched into a speech strange for a warrior: âWeâre all mortal, guys; what the hell does it matter if itâs sooner or later? To me, itâs way more interesting whatâs gonna happen to us afterwards. You probably think the generalâs nuts to talk about life after death right now, but I reckon â whenâs a better time? I mean, weâre simple guys â live in the field, pray to a shield, once the dangerâs over we give it no thought till the next time⊠Well, guys, thereâre plenty of opinions about whatâs gonna be, but one thing everyone agrees on is that we all get whatever we believe in. So if you think that once your corpse rots thereâs nothing left of you but a handful of dust, then thatâs how itâs gonna be with you. Some faiths are even worse â you wander around the underworld forever as a shade â better to rot to nothing, indeed, than such a fate! Some expect to lie on the green grass in a pretty garden, drink heavenly nectar and play the lyre; not bad, but kinda dull to my tastes. But there is a wonderful faith in the Eastern lands â a travelling missionary told me all about it a few days ago â and itâs pretty damn good, no fooling, but its Paradise is whatâs best, just my style.â
He looked around â the men seemed to be listening â and continued:
âA palace in Heaven and in it a feast to shame a royal wedding, wine flows like water from a spring, but the best part is the houranies. Those are girls who are always eighteen, beautiful beyond belief, and no doubts about their looks, for they are dressed only in a bracelet or two. And as for screwing â there are no such experts down here! One problem, though â only the righteous men are allowed there, guys such as us have no chanceâŠâ
The ranks stirred distinctly, a rumble rose and fell, someone spat: cheated, again! Ăomer raised a hand and silence fell again, broken only by the listless susurration of dead grass.
âThat is to say â no chance but one. There is one loophole for losers such as ourselves. In this wonderful faith anyone killed fighting for a just cause â and whoâd dare say that our cause is unjust? â has all his sins forgiven and automatically considered righteous. So if any of you guys wanna get to this Paradise by living righteously â good luck to you! As for me, I have no such hopes, so Iâm gonna join the houranies right here and now as a valiant martyr â when else am I gonna have such a chance? So whoever wants to and can â follow me, and good luck to the rest!â
He stood in the stirrups and yelled somewhere skyward, using his armor glove as a bullhorn:
âAhoy, gals! Open up the Heavenly bordello, never mind the hour! Stand ready to receive three best battalions of Rohan cavalry â bet my head to a broken arrow that you wonât ever forget these customers! Weâre about to attack, so weâll join you in Heaven in about ten minutes, that should be enough for you to get ready!â
And a miracle happened: the men began to stir! Laughter and elaborate cussing rose in the ranks; someone from the right flank inquired whether one could catch clap from a hourani and if so, how long it would take to cure in Heaven. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, a handsome man famous for his amorous exploits, told a furiously blushing youngster on the left flank:
âHead up, cornet! Those in the know say that there are beauties for every taste in that establishment. They must have lined up a flock of romantic maidens for you already, pining for a chance to hear you recite some verses in the moonlight!â The young man blushed even more to booming laughter and glared angrily at the prince from under (positively girlish) thick lashes. Ăomer wheeled his horse around so that dirt flew from under its hooves in a fan and called out:
âTo saddle, guys! The madam up there mustâve already sent for more wine for the new customers. By the laughter of Tulkas, today every one of you will get enough NĂșrnen wine to drown in, be it in heaven, be it on earth! The Valar will treat the fallen, the King of
Rohan will treat the living! After me!..â He tossed his mangled helmet aside and looked back no more as he rushed the horse towards where his trained eye had spotted a tiny patch of foreign color in the unbreakable stockade of Trollish armored infantry â the dark round shields of Easterling spearmen. The wind whistled in his ears and tossed his sweaty flaxen hair; Imrahil was galloping on his right, almost nose-to-nose.
âDammit, Prince, put on your helmet â bowmen to the right!â
âAfter you, fair sir!â the prince grinned at him, twirled his sword over his head, and called out in a voice hoarse from shouting orders: âDol Amroth and the Swan!â
âRohan and the White Horse!â echoed Ăomer, while behind their backs the thunder of thousands of hooves was already building to a majestic staccato: the riders of Rohan and Dol
Amroth were making their last charge, to win or die.
Chapter 9
Everybody knows that Easterling infantry is far inferior to Mordorâs; Ăomerâs charge scattered them like bowling pins, and the shining edge of Western cavalry crashed through the Mordorian defensive line. A little later another force slammed into their rear â a cutting edge of Aragornâs remaining gray warriors, encased with Gondorian armored infantry. By about six in the evening those fangs met deep in the body of the South Army, near its camp.
The battle as such was over then, and slaughter began. The parked siege engines were set ablaze, and the dancing flames highlighted now an Orocuen hospital wagon stuck in the mud, then an arrow-studded mĂ»mak dashing around the field, trampling friend and foe alike. Ăomer had just run into Aragorn in this chaos of victory and was ceremoniously hugging his brother-in-arms to everyoneâs victory whoops, when he noticed a horseman approaching them at full gallop â the blushing cornet. To tell the truth, the boy had more than acquitted himself, worthy of a medal. When the Rohirrim ran into the remnants of the Southern cavalry near the camp, he took on a Haradi lieutenant one-on-one, knocking the black giant out of the saddle (to everyoneâs astonishment) and seizing the enemyâs scarlet cape emblazoned with the Snake â the very cape he was now waving triumphantly. A dozen paces short of the fatherly gazing leaders the cornet dismounted, pulled off the helmet, shook his head like an unruly horse, and suddenly a mass of hair tumbled over his shoulders, the color of the sun-kissed prairie grass of the Plains of Rohan. âĂowyn!â was all Ăomer could say. âWhat the hell!..â
The shield-maiden stuck her tongue out at him, tossed him the Haradi cape in passing â he was left standing, stunned, clutching his sisterâs trophy â and stopped in front of Aragorn.
âGreetings, Ari!â she said calmly; Nienna only knew the price of that calmness.
âCongratulations on the victory. As I see it, the wartime excuses are now void. So if you donât need me any more, say so now and, by the stars of Varda, I will immediately stop bothering you!â
âHow can you say that, my Amazon!â and there she was in his saddle, looking at him with shining eyes, prattling nonsense, and then kissing him in front of everybody â the girls of Rohan are not big on southern ceremony, and a heroine of Pelennor could not care lessâŠ
All Ăomer could do was look at this idyllic picture and get more upset by the minute, thinking: âFool! Open your eyes and look at his face, itâs all written plainly there â what he is to you and what you are to him! Why, why do the idiot girls always fall for scoundrels â this one isnât even handsomeâŠâ not that he was the first or the last such in that World, or any otherâŠ
He said none of that aloud, of course, only asked: âShow me your arm.â Only when Ăowyn protested that she was adult enough to handle it and that it wasnât even a scratch did he let out some of his frustration by yelling loudly and profanely enough to curl ears, describing to the heroine of Pelennor, in graphic detail, what he was going to do to her if she didnât report to the medics by the count of three. Ăowyn laughed and saluted: âYes, my general!â and only the unusual care with which she mounted his horse told him that much more than a scratch was involved here. But the girl had already leaned on her brotherâs shoulder: âĂom, dear, please donât sulk, spank me if you want, just donât tell Auntie, please?â and rubbed her nose on his cheek, just like in their childhood⊠Aragorn was watching them with a smile, and Ăomer shuddered when he caught his look: it was the look in the eye of an archer right before he lets fly.
He only fully grasped the import of that look the next day, when it was too late. There was a council of war in Aragornâs tent that day, attended by Imrahil, Gandalf-Mithrandir, and a few Elvish lords (whose army had arrived the night before, when it was all over). There, the DĂșnadan explained to the heir of Rohan (the king now, really) without any pleasantries that he was a subordinate rather than an ally now, and that the life of Ăowyn, under special guard in the Minas Tirith hospital, depended entirely on his reasonableness.
âOh, dear Ăomer no doubt can run me through right here and now â and then watch what will happen to his sister in this palantĂr; it wonât be a sight for the fainthearted. No, she suspects nothing of the sort, of course; observe how touchingly sincere she is in caring for the wounded Prince Faramir⊠What guarantees? The only guarantee is common sense: when I am the King of Gondor and Arnor, I will have no one to fear⊠How? Very simply.
As you know, the king of Gondor is dead. A dreadful tragedy, really â imagine, he went mad and immolated himself on a funeral pyre. Prince Faramir had been struck by a poisoned arrow and will not get well for quite a while, if he ever does; this depends⊠ahâŠon a number of factors. Prince Boromir? Alas, no hope there, either â he fell in battle with the Orcs at Anduin, just beyond the Falls of Rauros, and I have put his body on the funeral boat with my own hands. And since there is a war on, the heir of Isildur may not leave the country without a leader. Therefore, I accept command over the Army of Gondor and the entire Western Coalition⊠Were you saying something, Ăomer? No?..
âWe are immediately moving on Mordor, for I can only accept the crown of Gondor when we return victorious. As for Faramir, I am inclined to grant him one of Gondorâs duchiesâŠoh, Ithilien, say. To tell the truth, he had always been more interested in poetry and philosophy than in matters of state. But we should not plan that far ahead, since his condition is critical and he may not survive until our return. So pray for his health, dearest
Imrahil, incessantly during our campaign; they say that the Valar especially appreciate the prayers of a best friend⊠When do we set out? Immediately after we clean up the remnants of the South Army at Osgiliath. Any questions? Good!â
The moment the tent was empty, the man in a gray cloak standing behind Aragorn said in a respectful reproach: âYou have taken an unjustified risk, Your Majesty. This Ăomer was clearly beside himself; he could have cast everything aside and lashed outâŠâ
The ranger turned to him and bit out: âYou strike me as both too talkative and too unobservant for a member of Secret Guard.â
âMy apologies, Your Majesty â a mithril coat of mail under your clothes?â
Aragornâs mocking gaze went over the speakerâs swarthy dry face, lingering on rows of tiny holes around the lips. A silence fell for almost a minute.
âHeh, Iâve almost decided that your brains mustâve dried up in the crypt and you would now question its provenance⊠By the way, I keep forgetting to ask: why do they sew your mouths shut?â
âNot just mouths, Your Majesty. The belief is that all openings in a mummyâs body must be closed up, lest the departed spirit re-enter it on the fortieth day and take vengeance on the living.â
âThatâs a rather naĂŻve method of⊠um⊠contraception.â
âIndeed, Your Majesty,â the gray man allowed himself a smile, âand I am living proof of that.â
âLiving, eh? How about the âvengeance on the livingâ bit?â
âWe only follow orders. Our shadow is your shadow.â
âSo whether I tell you to kill a child or become like a father to him, itâs all the same to you?â
âAbsolutely. I will perform either duty to the best of my ability.â
âAll right, this suits me. Hereâs a job for you in the meantime. The other day one of my Northern comrades-in-arms, a certain Anakit, got drunk and boasted to his friends that soon he will be as rich as Tingol. Supposedly he has information about some legendary sword for which a certain someone will pay any price. This talk has to end immediately.â
âYes, Your Majesty. Those who listened to these boastsâŠâ
âWhatever for?â
âYou think?..â
âRemember this, my dear friend: I kill without hesitation, but I never â never, you hear me?
â kill unless absolutely necessary. Understand?â
âThis is truly wise, Your Majesty.â
âYou take too many liberties, Lieutenant,â said the ranger in a tone that would chill many a man.
âOur shadow is your shadow,â repeated the other calmly. âSo, in a way, you and us are now one. May I carry out your orders?â
***
There is not much to add. The Western Coalition army (joined by the turncoat Easterlings who were âforgivenâ by the victors) set out for its last campaign, the highlight of which was the March 23
rd mutiny of the Westfold Rohirrim and Lossarnach militiamen, who could not for the life of them understand why they had to die far from home for Aragornâs crown.
Having ruthlessly put down the revolt, the DĂșnadan brought his army to the Cormallen field at the entrance to Morannon, where he met the last defenders of Mordor; the latter had already exhausted its reserves, having invested them all in the South Army. The coalition won; that is to say, the men of Gondor, Rohan, and East simply piled the fastnesses of Morannon with their corpses. The Elves, as usual, joined the battle when it was already decided. The losses of the victors were so massive that a legend about a huge Army of the East had to be quickly invented. The Mordorians there died to a man, including King Sauron; the latter fought in the ranks of his Royal Mounted Guard in a captainâs cloak, so his body was never identified. The chronicles of the Western countries mostly gloss over the Coalitionâs deeds after the victory, for the slaughter it carried out inside Mordor had been horrific even by the not-too-humanitarian standards of the time.
Be that as it may, Gandalfâs plan had succeeded (if you donât count the small matter of the Mirror, which the Elves had no intention of returning): the Mordorian civilization had
ceased to exist. However, the wizards of the White Council had somehow forgotten one factor: namely, that there is a certain Someone in the world Who rather abhors complete victories and assorted âfinal solutions,â and is capable of showing His displeasure with same in unimaginably startling ways. Even now, that Someone was dispassionately surveying the vanquished â all that flotsam cast ashore by the passed storm â when suddenly He rested His gaze upon two soldiers of the extinct South Army among the dunes of the desert of Mordor.