Four Isengard ‘blasting fire’ experts arrived at Dol Guldur at about the same time; that was the powder-like incendiary mix resembling that long used in Mordor for festive fireworks. A short wiry man with slightly bowed legs, named Wolverine and resembling a Dungar mountain man, was the Isengardians’ escort; he became Grizzly’s stand-in when the commandant had to leave the fortress on his secret business. The Mordorian engineers were skeptical at first: the drop-shaped stubby-winged ceramic jars loaded with ‘blasting fire’ (soon known as simply powder) did have a range of almost two miles, but their accuracy stank – plus or minus two hundred yards. Also, one time a ‘flying drop’ exploded right in the firing channel, killing a worker who happened to be nearby. After learning from the Isengardians that such things happened – “not all the time, mind you, but yeah, it happens” – the Mordorians traded meaningful looks: to hell with this ‘blasting fire,’ guys, it’s more dangerous to friend than foe.
Yet not three days after the accident the catapult drivers asked Grizzly to attend a test firing of a new kind of shell. The first shot from the usual three hundred yards blew eight targets to shreds; the new shell was just a hollow ceramic ball filled with powder and cut-up nails, set off with a fire cord used for naphtha bombs. The next step was obvious: put the jar of powder inside a larger one filled with fire jelly, which you get by dissolving soap in the lighter fraction of naphtha, so that the explosion flings sticky incendiary fluff in all directions. Grizzly examined the thirty-yard circle of earth scorched down to the mineral layer and turned to Jageddin in amazement: “All that done by a single jar? Congratulations, guys: finally you’ve come up with something worthwhile!”
That was when Kumai had the thought that one could not only sling such shells – whether incendiary or shrapnel ones – from catapults, but also drop them from gliders. “This makes no sense,” was the objection, “how many sorties can you fly during a battle? Two? Three? It’s not worth it.” “Yes, sure, if all you do is simply drop shells anywhere on the enemy’s army. But if you hit milord Aragorn together with milord Mithrandir, it’s quite worthwhile.” “You think you can hit them?” “Sure, why not? Rather than hit a man, I’d have to hit within fifteen yards of a man.” “Isn’t that kinda… you know… ignoble?” “Wha-a-a-at?!” “No, nothing… The old knightly wars – ‘are you ready, fair sir?’ – are anyway all done with. As the One is my witness, we didn’t start this.”
It did look like the ‘noble war’ was to be no more. For example, the Mordorian engineers have made serious strides in improving the crossbow – the weapon that had always been under an unspoken ban in Middle Earth. (“Why do you think the noble knights hate the crossbow so much? It looks personal, doesn’t it?” “Sure, we’ve all heard it: a distance weapon is a coward’s weapon.” “No, man, this is more complicated. Note that no one objects to bows much. The thing is that the best bow develops at most a hundred force- pounds at the bowstring, while a crossbow does a thousand.” “So what?” “So an archer can only bring down an armored knight if he hits him in the visor or an armor joint, which is a high art – you gotta start learning at three and maybe you’ll be some good by the age of twenty. Whereas a crossbowman just shoots at the target and the bolt goes right through wherever it hits. Which means that after a month’s training a fifteen-year-old journeyman who’s never held a weapon before can wipe his nose on his sleeve, take aim from a hundred yards, and goodbye to the famed Baron N, winner of forty-two tournaments, and so forth… You know how they say in Umbar: the One created weak and strong people, and the inventor of the crossbow made them equal? So now these strong people are mad at the demise of the high art of combat!” “Yep. What’s more, the taxed estates are beginning to scratch their heads: what do we need all those fancy boys for, with all their coats of arms, plumages, and all the rest? If it’s to protect the Motherland, perhaps crossbowmen will be cheaper?” “You’re so down-to-earth practical, brother!” “I guess I am. Plus I’m too dumb to figure out why it’s noble to knock someone’s brains out with a sword but dishonorable to do it with a crossbow bolt.”)
But the steel crossbows with ‘distance glasses,’ the ‘flying drops,’ even incendiary shells dropped from the sky paled next to their unseen commanders’ recent demand via Grizzly: there are several well-known gorges in the Misty Mountains where cracks in the rocks emit a fog that quickly dissipates into still air. The few who managed to escape these gorges told that the moment you breathe this fog you taste a revolting sweetness, and then drowsiness hits you like an avalanche. The myriad animal skeletons littering the slopes testify to how this drowsiness ends. You’re supposed to find a way to direct such fog at the enemy.
Kumai was a man of discipline, but this idea made him nauseous: to poison the very air – some weapon of vengeance! Thank the One that he’s a mechanic rather than a chemist and will not have to be involved in this particular project.
…He dropped two large stones from a hundred feet (same weight as the explosive shells; they hit right next to the targets) and set the glider down right on the highway about a mile and a half from Dol Guldur, near where the road emptied into the gloomy canyon it had washed through Mirkwood after cutting through the sickly ruddiness of the heather expanses like a white scar. He got out of the cockpit and sat on the side of the road, glancing impatiently in the direction of the fortress. Soon someone will be here with the horses, and he’ll attempt to launch the Dragon right from the ground, towed by a brace of horses, like they used to do with the old gliders. Where’re those guys already?..
Since Kumai was mostly looking towards Dol Guldur, he only saw the man walking the road from the direction of Mirkwood when he was about thirty yards away. Looking at the newcomer, the Troll first shook his head: no way! Then he sprinted towards the man head over heels and had him in a bear hug a moment later.
“Easy, big guy, you’ll break my ribs!”
“I have to know if you’re a ghost!.. When did they find you?”
“A while ago. Listen, first things first: Sonya is alive and well, she’s with the Resistance in the Ash Mountains…”
Haladdin listened to Kumai’s tale, staring at the busy milling of the earth bees over the heather flowers. Yeah, abandoned ruins with real hiding places, far from human habitation, where a normal person would never go… leave it to the Nazgúl to hide a palantír in such a hornet’s nest. I’m really lucky to have been intercepted before I had the chance to foist my clumsy story on a couple of intelligence professionals. I can’t tell Grizzly and Wolverine the truth, either. Just imagine this picture. Some field medic, second class, shows up at their super-extra-secret Weapon Monastery: hi, guys, I’m only here to pick up a palantír and go right back to Prince Faramir in Ithilien. I’m working for the Order of the Nazgúl, but the one who empowered me died on the spot, so no one can corroborate this fact. I can show you a Nazgúl ring as proof, but it’s magic-free… Yeah, a real pretty picture. They’ll probably peg me as a psycho, not even a spy. They’ll probably let me into the castle (poison experts aren’t common) but they won’t let me out – I myself wouldn’t have… Hey, wait a minute!..