“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 bow:
“My apologies, Your Highness. I am Sir Elvard, lieutenant of the Dúnadan Royal Guard. Perhaps you will find it possible to surrender your sword to me?”
“What makes you better than the others?”
“Possibly the Secret Guard had committed some offense against your honor. If that’s the case, His Majesty’s Royal Guard, as represented by me, offers its sincere apologies and guarantees that this will not happen again and that the guilty parties shall be punished. Then we could conclude this unfortunate incident.”
“Fish don’t swim backwards, Lieutenant. Her Highness and I have decided to leave this fort as free people or die trying.”
“You leave me no choice but to disarm you by force.”
“Go ahead, Lieutenant. Just be careful – you may cut yourself.”
This time the attack was more determined. However, while a certain line had not been crossed the Prince and Princess of Ithilien had an advantage: Éowyn and Faramir inflicted stabbing wounds to the extremities without hesitation, whereas their opponents so far did not dare do so. In a short time the attackers had three lightly wounded and the attack fizzled out. The Dúnedain fought unenthusiastically, and kept glancing at their lieutenant: give a clear order already! Cut these two down or what? The Secret Guard had taken position in the rear ranks, allowing Sir Elvard to take command (and responsibility), as the situation appeared untenable.
Then, just as Faramir congratulated himself on how good a job of buying time for Tzerlag they were doing, the man suddenly showed up by his side, scimitar in hand, and said in a lifeless voice:
“It’s a modern Umbarian lock, Prince, I can’t open it. Surrender before it’s too late.”
“It is too late,” Faramir snapped. “Tzerlag, can we save you somehow?”
The Orocuen shook his head: “Unlikely. They sure don’t need me as a prisoner.”
“Éowyn?”
“We will face Mandos together, darling – what could be better?”
“Then let’s at least have some fun first.” With those words Faramir advanced recklessly towards the ranks of the Whites, right at Sir Elvard. “Hold on, Lieutenant! By the arrows of Oromë, we’re going to splash your master’s robes with our blood – he won’t ever wash it off!”
The hall filled with ringing of blades and fierce yells (the fight was now such that it became clear – soon there would be first dead). That was when a voice sounded from somewhere on the north stair – seemingly quiet, but somehow penetrating the minds of all the combatants: “Stop, all of you! Faramir, please listen to me!” There was something in that voice that froze the fight for a few moments, so that Cheetah (in someone else’s cloak, leaning on something like a crutch with his left hand and on a White sergeant’s shoulder with his right) managed to reach the middle of the hall. He stopped amid the frozen tableau and his voice sounded a command: “Go, Faramir! Quick!” A small shiny object tossed by his hand bounced off Tzerlag’s chest, and the amazed sergeant picked up a fancy double-headed Umbarian key.
The freeze thawed immediately. At the Orocuen’s command Faramir and Éowyn moved back towards the door, he himself disappeared into the cellar again, and Sir Elvard, who had finally understood what just happened, cried out: “Treason! They’ll escape through the tunnel!” The lieutenant thought for a couple of seconds, arrived at a final decision, pointed at the prince with his sword and shouted: “Kill him!” Things got serious in a hurry. It immediately became obvious that Éowyn, at least, would not be able to hold out for more than a couple of minutes: the girl fenced perhaps even better than the prince, but the captured Dúnadan blade was too heavy to suit her well. They had each sustained a glancing wound (he to the right side, she to the left shoulder) when they finally heard: “It’s open, Prince! Retreat one by one between the barrels! I have the sack!”
A few seconds later the prince followed Éowyn into the cellar. Right at the threshold he managed to strike a good blow at the attacking Dúnadan, broke contact and quickly backed into the darkness, right into a narrow aisle between empty barrels stacked three high. “Faster, faster!” Tzerlag’s voice sounded from somewhere above him. The Whites were already in the door, their silhouettes clearly visible against the lit doorway, when there was a wooden rumble resembling an avalanche, and then it was dark – not a ray of light penetrated from the door. Faramir halted in confusion, but then the Orocuen materialized from somewhere by his side, grabbed his arm and pulled him further into the dark. The prince’s shoulders bumped the walls of the passage, Dúnedain yells and curses filtered from behind, and Éowyn was calling to them in alarm from up ahead. “What happened, Tzerlag?” “Nothing much: I simply rocked the top barrels and brought them down to block the passage. Now we have at least a minute breathing room.”
The girl was awaiting them at a small, unusually thick door leading into a narrow and low (about five feet high) tunnel. It was so dark that even the Orocuen could not see much.
“Éowyn, in there, now! Take the palantír! Faramir, help me… where the hell is it?”
“What’re you looking for?”
“A beam. A small beam, about six feet; Grager’s men were supposed to leave it on the other side… Aha, here it is! Did you close the door, Prince? Now we secure it from the outside with this beam… Come over, let’s fit the other end in this hole here. Praise the One, it’s an earthen floor, this will hold well.”
A few seconds later the door shuddered under blows from the inside; they were just in time.
Upstairs in Emyn Arnen a major spat was in progress. Sir Edvard, pale with anger, screamed at the chief of counter-intelligence:
“You’re under arrest, Cheetah, or whatever your name is! Know this, bastard: up North we hang traitors by their legs, so that they have time to think before dying!..”
“Shut up, idiot, it’s bad enough already,” the captain answered tiredly. He was sitting on a step, eyes closed, waiting patiently while another man fashioned a crude cast for his foot. A grimace of pain contorted his face from time to time: a broken foot is a truly horrendous injury.
“Anyway, you’re under arrest,” the Dúnadan repeated; then he glanced up at the Secret Guard officers arrayed in a semicircle behind their chief and felt a sudden fear – not that he scared easily. The seven figures froze in a strange immobility, and their eyes – usually dark and empty, like a dry well – suddenly shone with a scarlet shimmer, like a predator’s.