…The discussion on the path was becoming more protracted. Haladdin took down his ponyaga (as usual, the first sensation was an illusion of blissfully floating on air, quickly replaced by the accumulated weariness of the march) and approached the rangers. Both sergeants looked worried: they have been walking paths through deep forest, avoiding the road joining Dol Guldur to Morannon, and yet the scouts constantly felt human presence even in these enchanted thickets. And now this: fresh bootprints of a Mordorian infantryman… yet Sharya-Rana had mentioned no Mordorian forces near the fortress.
“Perhaps deserters from the North Army back then?”
“Unlikely…” Tzerlag scratched his head. “Any deserter would’ve fled these parts immediately, anywhere’s better than here. This one is stationed somewhere nearby: judging by the depth of the print, he’s carrying no load.”
“Strange tracks,” Runcorn confirmed, “the soldiers of your North Army have to have worn- out boots, but these look like they’re fresh from the warehouse. Look how sharp the edge is.”
“How do you know that these are Mordorians?”
The scouts traded slightly offended looks. “Well, the height of the heel, the shape of the toe…”
“That’s not what I mean. Tzerlag and I here are wearing ichigas – so what?”
There was a brief silence. “Damn. Yeah, that’s true, but why?”
There was, indeed, no sense to it, and the decision Haladdin made suddenly was totally irrational – a stab in the dark. Strictly speaking, it was not even his decision; rather, some unseen power ordered him to go ahead. When this happens, you either obey or quit the game.
“All right, here’s what we’ll do. As I understand it, it’s less than a dozen miles to Dol Guldur. We will go to the road now, where you will camp and I’ll continue to the fortress alone. If I’m not back in three days, I’m dead and you’re to go back. Do not approach the fortress under any circumstances. Any circumstances, understand?”
“Are you crazy, sir?” the Orocuen piped up.
“Sergeant Tzerlag,” he had never even suspected himself to be capable of such a tone, “do you understand your orders?”
“Yeah…” the man hesitated, but only for a second. “Yes, Field Medic Second Class, sir!”
“Wonderful. I need to have some sleep and a good think about what I’m going to tell these guys in brand-new boots, should they be in charge at the fortress. Who I am, where have I been all these months, how did I get here, and all that… why I’m shod in ichigas – no detail is too small.”
Chapter 57
Kumai turned the rudder, and the glider hung motionlessly in the sky, resting its widespread wings on empty air with ease and confidence. You could see all of Dol Guldur plainly from here, with all its decorative bastions and battlements, the central donjon (all workshops now), and the thread of the road winding between heather-covered hillocks. He scanned the environs and grinned contentedly: hiding their ‘Weapon Monastery’ here in the boonies, right under the Lórien Elves’ noses, was a brilliantly impudent undertaking. Many of the colleagues gathered under the roof of the magic fortress were unsettled (some had constant nightmares, others developed strange ailments), but Trolls are thick-skinned, phlegmatic, and believe neither dreams nor signs, so the engineer felt great here and worked day and night.
Formally their chief was Jageddin – the famed master of chemistry, optics, and electrical mechanics from the Barad-Dur University – but the real master here was Commandant Grizzly, who really did resemble a huge gray bear from the wooded foothills of the Northeast; none of them knew his real name or his rank in the Secret Service. Kumai could not even figure out his race; maybe one of the northern Trolls that used to live in the Misty Mountains before melting into Dungarians and Angmarians?
Kumai met the commandant immediately upon his arrival at the fortress (the Superintendant’s people got him there in stages along the Dol Guldur highway – they turned out to have a regular route there, moving convoys almost every other day). Grizzly interrogated him for several hours, going through Kumai’s entire life history; about the only thing he did not ask him about were his first girlfriend’s sexual tastes. Childhood, school, military service; names, dates, specifications of flying machines, the habits of his university friends, descriptions of supervisors in his father’s mines, and the sequence of traditional toasts at Trollish feasts… “You say that on the day of your first flight, May 3rd 3014, the sky was overcast. Are you sure?.. What’s the name of the bartender at Achigidel Bar, across from the University? Oh yes, right, that bar is a block away down the boulevard… Engineer First Class Shagrat from your regiment – is he tall, hunched over, with a limp? Oh, stocky and no limp…” Any fool could see that this was a verification procedure, but why so thorough? When Kumai mentioned a detail of his escape from Mindolluin, Grizzly made a face: “Didn’t they tell you that this is a forbidden topic?”
“But…” the engineer was surprised, “I didn’t think that this ban applies to you, too…”
“Were you told of any exceptions?”
“No… Sorry.”
“Get used to it. Very well, you’ve passed this test. Have some tea.” With those words the commandant moved a large round teapot with a chipped spout and a Khandian tea bowl of finest beige porcelain and unimaginable provenance towards Kumai and got busy studying the list of necessary supplies the mechanic had put together (bamboo, balsa wood, Umbarian sailcloth – a panoply of stuff, no doubt to be augmented later). “By the way, your former colleagues, like Master Mhamsuren… would it appreciably help your work to have them here?”
“Of course!.. But is such a thing possible?”
“There’s nothing impossible for our Service, but you need to remember everything you can about these people – their looks, distinctive features, friends, relatives, habits. Every little thing helps, so please work your memory.”
Another half an hour later the commandant lightly slapped a stack of fresh handwritten sheets and summarized: “If they’re alive, we’ll find them,” and Kumai felt with certainty – these guys will.
“Please change, Engineer Second Class.” Grizzly glanced towards a brand-new Mordorian uniform without any insignia (everyone here was dressed that way – Jageddin’s scientists, service staff, and the silent Secret Service guards). “I’ll show you our physical plant.”
The ‘physical plant’ turned out to be large and diverse. For example, Kumai saw an excellent glider of a type he had never seen before: the ten-yard wings, straight and narrow like an Elvish blade, seemed to stretch over almost nothing – some improbable material, lighter than balsa and stronger than stone chestnut. The ‘soft’ catapult used to launch the glider was a proper match – say what you want, guys, but there are no such materials in nature! Only then did the mechanic realize that this was the famed Dragon of the Nazgúl, whose range was limited only by how long the pilot could stay aloft without a break. Kumai mastered the art of flying the Dragon easily – the better a machine is, the easier it is to control.